By  ANNA   FULLER 


A  Literary  Courtship:  Under  the  Auspices  of 
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Pratt  Portraits:  Sketched  in  a  New  Eng- 
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OLD  LADY   PRATT 


*    pratt 
portraits  i 


Sfcetcbefc  in  a  IRew 
Suburb  * 


Buna  jfuller 
•  i  *•  1 1  'Jl  • 


f*ew  Korft  a^  Xo^on  «  (3.  p. 
Putnam's  Sons   «    •    «    •    • 


COPYRIGHT,  1892 

BY 
ANNA  FULLER 

COPYRIGHT,  1897 

*    «^.«>'i    •'**     -    *  BY  *      •  • 

.' '  O.-P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 

Set  up  and  electrotyped,  April,  1892.  Reprinted,  Aug.,  1892 ;  Oct., 
1892  ;  June,  1893  ;  July,  1893  ;  Dec.,  1893  ;  July,  1894  »  Sept.,  1894 ;  April, 
1895  ;  April,  1896 ;  July,  1897  ;  Nov.,  1897  ;  Feb.,  1898  ;  Nov.,  1898 ; 
Dec.,  1899  ;  Jan.,  1902  ;  June,  1902  ;  Jan.,  1906  ;  Jan.,  1908 


Ube  ftnfcfcerbocfeer  prce«,  Hew  fiorh 


CONTENTS. 


I. — AUNT  BETSY'S  PHOTOGRAPHS  z 

II.— HARRIET 28 

in.— A  DOMESTIC  CRISIS 56 

IV.— BEN'S  WIFE  .  .      .. 84 

V.— A  YANKEE  QUIXOTE 106 

VI. — A  NEW  ENGLAND  QUACK    .        .        .        .131 

VII. — A  NEW  ENGLAND  CONSCIENCE  .        .        .  157 

VIII. — THE  SCHOOLMARM 175 

IX.— A  VALENTINE 205 

X.— OLD  LADY  PRATT       '  .        .        .        .        .233 

XI. — MARY  ANNE 255 

XII. — WELL  MATCHED   ......  274 

XIII. — UNCLE  BOBBY        ...       .       .        .  301 

NOTE. 


It  is  owing  to  the  courtesy  of  Messrs.  Harper  and 
Brothers  that  I  am  permitted  to  include  in  this  volume 
seven  sketches  which  have  previously  appeared  in  Har- 
per's Bazar ;  namely,  "  Aunt  Betsy's  Photographs," 
"Harriet,"  "Ben's  Wife,"  "The  Schoolmarm,"  "Old 
Lady  Pratt,"  "Well  Matched,"  and  "Uncle  Bobby." 

A.  F. 
iii 


957083 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

OI.D  LADY  PRATT Frontispiece 

AUNT  BETSY 18 

HARRIET 44 

KATIE 78 

MARTHA 98 

WIWAM 130 

AWCE.       .                    156 

ANSON 168 

THE  SCHOOI,MARM 184 

HATTIE .226 

MARY  ANNE 258 

DICK 298 

BOBBY 312 


PRATT  PORTRAITS. 


I. 
AUNT  BETSY'S  PHOTOGRAPHS. 

AUNT  BETSY  lived  with  her  mother,  Old 
I^ady  Pratt,  in  a  small  house  in  Green 
Street.      Small  as  the  house  was,   she 
had  never  got  over  the  impression  that 
it  was  rather  large,  and  very  handsome.     Forty- 
five   years  ago,   before    she    lost    her    hearing, 
Aunt  Betsy,  then  little  Betty  Pratt,  had  heard  her 
mother  pronounce  it  to  be  "  in  every  respect  supe- 
rior ' '  to  the  house  they  had  left,  though  that  had 
been  *  *  a  very  desirable  residence  in  its  day. ' '     It 
stood  on  a  quiet  little  side  street,  where  there 
were  no  pretentious  neighbors  to  put  it  out  of 
countenance;  a  street  which  slumbered  on,  so 
undisturbed  by  the  bustle  of  the  town  a  few  blocks 
away  that  Aunt  Betsy  used  sometimes  to  wonder 
whether  it  were  not  "a  little  hard  o'  hearin'  too." 
The  "  new  house,"  as  she  still  called  it  in  her 
own  thoughts,  was  long  and  rambling,  presenting 


2  Pratt  Portraits. 

•. 

a  narrow  end  to  the  street,  upon  which  only  the 
staircase  windows  looked,  and  then  elongating 
itself  surprisingly,  away  back  into  what  would 
have  been  the  backyard  had  not  the  wood-shed 
crowded  itself  up  to  the  very  fence.  This  obliged 
them  to  stretch  their  clothes-line  across  the  long, 
narrow  grass-plot,  which  followed  the  line  of  the 
house  from  back  to  front — a  thing  which  was 
something  of  a  trial  to  Aunt  Betsy.  She  never 
thought  it  quite  modest  to  hang  out  your  under- 
garments in  full  view  of  the  passers-by,  and  she 
had  sometimes  wished  that  a  hedge  might  be 
planted  across  the  space,  just  beyond  the  green 
side-door.  But  being  very  much  in  awe  of  her 
mother,  she  had  never  ventured  to  suggest  any 
such  innovation,  and  had  contented  herself  with 
a  persistent  effort  to  have  the  sheets  and  table- 
cloths hung  on  the  front  line.  As  she  did  not 
assign  any  reason  for  this  arrangement,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  Eliza,  Mrs.  Pratt 's  "  girl  " — a  maiden 
of  some  sixty  odd  summers, — regarded  it  as  a 
"whim  of  Miss  Betsy's,"  and  was  not  always 
mindful  of  so  arbitrary  a  rule. 

Aunt  Betsy  lived  in  a  very  small  world  indeed, 
and  her  small  world  was  entirely  overshadowed 
by  the  strong  and  rather  severe  influence  of  her 
mother.  She  was  but  ten  years  old  when  the 
narrow  barriers  of  her  life  were  fixed  irrevocably 
about  her  soul. 

Only  a  few  days  after  they  moved  into  the  new 
house  the  little  daughter,  the  youngest  of  six 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  3 

children,  slipped  on  the  steep,  narrow  backstairs, 
and  fell  from  top  to  bottom.  From  that  time  she 
became  almost  totally  deaf.  Whether  at  the  same 
time  her  faculties  were  deadened,  or  whether  they 
had  become  dull  from  want  of  incentive  from 
without,  no  one  knows.  Certain  it  is  that  she 
was  never  the  lively,  intelligent  child  that  Mrs. 
Pratt  had  every  right  to  expect  a  child  of  hers  to 
be. 

She  was  now  a  tall,  rather  corpulent  woman, 
with  somewhat  flabby  cheeks,  and  little  appear- 
ance of  "backbone,"  wherein  she  presented  a 
striking  contrast  to  her  small,  upright  mother, 
who  even  in  her  eighty-fifth  year  never  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  and  whose  bright  black  eyes 
could  startle  Betsy,  with  a  look  which  seemed 
positively  shrill  to  the  poor  old  woman,  in  the 
eternal  silence  of  her  consciousness. 

For  she  grew  to  be  an  old  woman  after  a  time. 
She  saw  her  brothers  and  sisters  leave  their  home, 
one  after  another,  and  make  new  homes  for  them- 
selves ;  her  father,  who  had  been  gentle  with  her, 
"departed  hence,"  and,  last  of  all,  Ben,  her 
favorite  brother,  took  to  himself  a  wife,  and  moved 
into  Bliss  Street. 

Ben  was  a  kindly  soul,  of  few  words,  who  had 
always  got  on  better  than  any  one  else  with  Betsy. 
For  instead  of  trying  to  talk  to  her,  and  getting 
impatient  when  she  did  not  hear,  he  had  a  way  of 
turning  upon  her  now  and  then  a  broad,  beaming 
smile  as  delightful  as  a  whole  conversation.  On 


4  Pratt  Portraits. 

his  wedding  day  he  made  Betsy  a  present,  which 
remained  her  dearest  possession  as  long  as  she 
lived.  It  was  a  large  glass  pin,  containing  a  lock 
of  her  father's  hair,  and  bordered  with  a  row  of 
small  seed-pearls.  On  the  golden  back  was  in- 
scribed, in  old  English  letters, 


She  wore  it  on  Sundays,  and  when  the  minister 
came  to  tea,  and  at  the  christenings  and  weddings 
of  her  nieces  and  nephews.  The  rest  of  the  time 
it  reposed  in  a  small  satin-lined  box,  together 
with  a  carnelian  ring  which  her  mother  thought 
she  was  too  old  to  wear,  and  a  stray  onyx  sleeve- 
button  which  had  belonged  to  her  father. 

She  felt  sorry  to  have  Ben  go,  and  she  told  him 
so,  in  an  unsteady  voice  that  went  to  the  kind 
fellow's  heart;  but  then  she  supposed  it  was 
"  natural  enough,"  and  she  submitted,  quite  un- 
complainingly, to  the  life  alone  with  her  sharp- 
eyed  mother,  which  was  to  reach  on  and  on  into 
the  future. 

Happily,  Betsy  did  not  think  much  about  the 
future.  She  was  a  placid  soul,  not  realizing  very 
clearly  how  much  brighter  other  lives  were  than 
hers.  She  loved  her  canary-bird  and  the  great 
'  '  Malty  '  '  cat,  Topsy  by  name,  which  attained  to 
a  fabulous  age,  living  in  undisputed  possession 
of  the  one  really  comfortable  chair  in  the  sitting- 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  5 

room.  And,  above  all,  she  found  companionship 
in  her  flowers.  Every  one  gave  her  slips  and  seed- 
lings, and  marvelled  at  her  success  in  raising 
them.  The  sunny  south  window  in  the  wood- 
shed was  the  nursery  for  these  pets  of  hers,  and 
not  until  they  were  fairly  flowering  were  they 
promoted  to  the  green  wire  stand  in  the  sitting- 
room.  The  neighbors  used  to  praise  her  skill 
and  ask  her  advice,  and  even  her  mother  would 
sometimes  betray  a  pride  in  this  '  *  faculty ' '  of 
Betsy's. 

11  Betsy,"  she  would  say,  when  Mrs.  Baxter 
had  come  in  with  her  knitting  to  pass  the  after- 
noon— "  Betsy,  you  go  out  into  the  wood-shed 
and  fetch  in  that  little  flower  that  blowed  this 
mornin'.  Mis'  Baxter  would  like  to  see  it, 
mebbe." 

She  did  not  succeed  so  well  with  the  children 
growing  up  about  her.  She  was  a  little  shy  of 
them,  of  their  gay  chatter,  which  she  could  not 
understand,  and  their  childish  egotism.  They  all 
loved  Grandma,  or,  as  she  had  now  become, 
Great-grandmamma  Pratt.  She  made  such  good 
jokes,  and  laughed,  and  was  interested  in  all 
their  doings.  But  Aunt  Betsy  just  sat  there  with 
her  worsted- work,  and  didn't  hear  when  she 
was  spoken  to  unless  you  quite  shouted  in  her 
ear,  and  then  she  jumped  in  such  a  funny  way, 
and  seemed  so  flustered.  Why,  she  could  n'  t  even 
"make  a  cheese  "  for  them,  when  the  big  hoops 
came  into  fashion,  by  twirling  round  and  round 


6  Pratt  Portraits. 

and  then  suddenly  sitting  plump  down  on  the  floor 
with  her  skirts  rising  in  billows  about  her. 
Aunt  Bmmeline  could  do  it,  and  Aunt  Martha, 
and  'most  any  body,  but  Aunt  Betsy  said  it  made 
her  head  giddy.  Aunt  Betsy  was  "  no  good." 

Sometimes,  when  Betsy  found  how  startling 
and  troublesome  these  small  specimens  of  hu- 
manity were,  she  was  almost  reconciled  to  being 
an  old  maid.  She  knew  that  her  mother  was  a 
good  deal  mortified  at  having  a  child  who  had 
never  "had  an  offer,"  and  she  felt  hot  and  un- 
comfortable as  often  as  she  thought  of  a  certain 
temptation  which  had  assailed  her  many  years 
ago.  It  was  when  the  neighborhood  was  stirred 
and  shocked  by  the  sudden  death  of  young  Alfred 
Williams,  an  amiable  though  impecunious  mem- 
ber of  Green  Street  society,  who  had  been  left 
over,  as  it  were,  from  among  her  sister  Jane's 
admirers.  Betsy  was  at  that  time  about  twenty- 
one  years  old,  and  Alfred  had  continued  coming 
in  pretty  regularly  to  tea  of  an  evening  after  the 
disappearance  of  Jane  from  the  family  circle. 
The  goodness  of  the  fare  may  have  been  an  at- 
traction, or  perhaps  he  really  liked  Betsy,  though 
he  gave  no  sign.  However  that  may  have  been, 
his  visits  had  not  passed  unnoted  by  the  neigh- 
bors, and  the  morning  he  died  Mrs.  Baxter  came 
in  to  discuss  the  news. 

"  He  was  a  very  well  favored  young  man,  I  am 
sure, ' '  said  she,  ' '  and  a  great  loss  to  our  circle. 
Dr.  Baxter  says  he  has  heard  that  his  employers 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  7 

had  entire  confidence  in  him.  And,  by-the-way , '  * 
she  added,  turning  to  Betsy,  and  raising  her  voice 
to  its  highest  pitch,  "  I  always  thought  that 
Alfred  had  rather  a  leaning  to  you,  Betsy." 

This  speech  threw  Betsy  into  such  an  unwonted 
tremor  and  flutter  that  she  blushed  violently,  and 
looked  guilty  of  a  hundred  tender  passages. 

The  moment  their  visitor  had  departed,  Mrs. 
Pratt  beckoned  her  daughter  to  her  side  on  the 
sofa  and  asked,  in  her  penetrating  voice,  (<  Did  he 
ever  say  anything,  Betsy  ?  ' ' 

I  fancy  that  Betsy,  at  the  moment,  would  have 
given  half  her  life's  purchase  to  say  "  Yes  "  ;  but 
something  within  her  which  no  limitations  could 
stunt,  a  perfectly  well  developed  New  England 
conscience,  compelled  her  to  answer  : 

"  No,  Mother,  he  never  said  a  word." 

So  the  stigma  of  the  unsought  rested  upon  poor 
Betsy,  and  her  last  chance  was  lost  of  rising  in 
her  mother's  esteem. 

Before  she  was  forty  her  mother  put  her  into 
caps,  which  she  never  changed  the  fashion  of. 
They  were  flat  on  top  and  very  bunchy  at  the 
sides,  with  purple  or  green  ribbons,  which  bobbed 
up  and  down  when  she  moved  her  head.  She 
got  a  habit  of  letting  her  head  ''joggle"  a  little 
as  she  bent  over  her  worsted-work  or  tatting, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  her  mother,  who  tried  to 
break  her  of  it.  But  her  mother's  admonitions 
used  to  frighten  her  so  that  she  lost  control  of 
herself  in  that  peremptory  little  woman's  presence, 


8  Pratt  Portraits. 

and  her  head  only  shook  the  harder.  When  she 
was  alone  in  her  room  she  could  almost  always 
get  it  steady  again.  She  used  to  sit  in  front  of 
the  glass,  seeing  how  still  she  could  hold  her 
head  ;  and,  curiously  enough,  this  study  of  her 
own  countenance,  so  new  and  yet  so  fascinating, 
developed  a  singular  vanity  in  her  which  no  one 
would  have  dreamed  of  suspecting.  Especially 
of  a  Sunday,  when  she  had  on  her  ' '  shot-silk  ' ' 
gown,  with  Brother  Ben's  pin  fastening  the  broad 
flat  collar,  and  when  her  best  cap  rested  on  her 
gray  locks,  she  would  look  deprecatingly  at  her 
fat,  amiable  old  face,  and  wonder  if  blue  eyes 
were  not  * ' '  most  as  pretty  as  black, ' '  and  whether, 
if  she  had  not  been  so  deaf,  she  too  might  not 
have  had  offers  like  the  other  women  she 
knew. 

It  was  about  this  time — that  is,  when  Aunt 
Betsy  was  well  on  in  the  fifties — that  photography 
was  first  invented,  and  her  brothers  and  sisters 
began  coming  in  with  little  card  pictures  of  them- 
selves and  their  families.  All  the  neighborhood 
was  excited  about  these  wonderful  likenesses,  to 
be  got  at  three  dollars  a  dozen,  and  so  much  more 
satisfactory  than  the  old  daguerreotypes ,  which  one 
had  to  turn  this  way  and  that  to  see  them  at  all. 
Even  Grandma  was  at  last  persuaded  to  sit  for 
hers,  and  it  had  been  in  such  demand  that  two 
dozen  had  been  ordered  on  the  spot,  and  they  had 
"gone  off  like  hot  cakes,"  as  Brother  Ben  kept 
saying  over  and  over  again. 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  9 

Aunt  Betsy  was  never  tired  of  studying  these 
black-and-white  representations  of  her  relatives, 
and  she  secretly  cherished  a  hope  that  some  one 
would  propose  her  sitting  for  hers.  Nobody 
thought  of  such  a  thing,  however,  though  one  of 
her  sisters  gave  her  a  small  photograph  album 
bound  in  purple  cloth.  This  did  not  fill  up  very 
fast,  as  Grandma  always  had  to  have  the  new  pho- 
tographs, and  not  many  people  were  prepared  to 
squander  two  specimens  on  one  family.  She  had 
her  mother,  looking  unnaturally  meek  without 
her  spectacles,  and  Brother  Ben  and  Sister  Harriet, 
besides  the  youngest  babies  in  the  family,  whose 
mothers  really  could  not  refuse  the  lovely  things 
to  any  one  who  asked  for  them.  But  this  was 
all. 

By  and  by  the  new  sensation  was  a  little  past, 
and  other  subjects  of  interest  came  up,  lacking 
pictorial  illustration — subjects  in  which  Aunt 
Betsy  could  not  take  so  intelligent  a  part. 

Now  Aunt  Betsy  had  always  a  little  store  of 
money,  which  her  well-to-do  brothers  and  sisters 
kept  her  supplied  with.  Her  sister  Harriet 
particularly  was  * '  quite  a  rich  woman, ' '  as  Old 
I^ady  Pratt  took  some  pride  in  stating,  and  rode 
in  her  carriage ;  and  not  infrequently  she  made 
her  sister  Betsy  a  present  of  a  quarter  or  even 
half  a  dollar.  Betsy,  who  was  a  hospitable 
soul,  used  to  wait  upon  their  guests  to  the  door, 
and  say,  in  a  tone  of  mild  entreaty,  no  mattef 
what  the  length  of  the  visit  might  have  been  : 


io  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  Do  come  agin,  when  you  can  stay  longer." 

In  response  to  which  little  formula  Sister  Har- 
riet would  often  slip  a  bit  of  paper  currency  into 
her  hand,  and  say  ; 

"  Thank  you,  Betsy.  There  !  There  's  a  trifle 
for  your  worsted- work." 

And  to  that  purpose  the  money  was  usually 
devoted ;  for,  so  small  was  Aunt  Betsy's  world, 
that  even  objects  of  charity  seldom  found  their 
way  into  it,  and  the  contribution  box,  with  its 
mute  appeal,  never  crossed  her  vision.  Her 
mother  had  long  ago  decreed  that  * '  there  was  no 
sense  in  Betsy's  goin'  to  meetin'.  She  could  n't 
hear  a  syllable,  and  it  was  a  shame  to  go  to  the 
L,ord's  House  jest  to  stare  about  you." 

So  the  money  which  might  have  swelled  the 
missionary  exchequer  went  to  the  purchase  of 
very  brilliant  colored  worsteds,  which  were  always 
utilized  in  the  following  manner :  Aunt  Betsy 
would  work  on  canvas,  in  black  cross-stitch,  the 
outline  of  hearts,  ingeniously  arranged,  so  that 
the  lobe  of  one  furnished  the  point  for  the  next 
above  it.  These  hearts  were  filled  in,  each  with 
a  different  colored  worsted,  the  small  diamond- 
shaped  spaces  between  being  wrought  in  bright 
yellow  silk,  and  thus  pin-cushions  and  sofa  pillows 
were  made  and  sown  broadcast  throughout  the 
family. 

Betsy  was  also  skilled  in  making  tape  trim- 
ming for  underclothes,  and  she  had  a  wooden 
frame  on  which  she  sometimes  embroidered 


Aunt  Betsys  Photographs.  n 

rather  unsubstantial  lace.  But  she  much  pre- 
ferred to  work  in  colors.  * '  Colors  are  so  speak- 
ing," as  she  used  to  say  to  herself.  Her  special 
pride  was  a  sofa  cushion  she  once  worked  for 
Sister  Harriet,  which  contained  three  hundred 
and  twenty-four  hearts,  no  two  of  which  were 
done  in  the  same  shade  of  worsted. 

There  came  a  time  when  Aunt  Betsy  felt  that 
if  she  did  not  have  her  picture  taken  before  she 
grew  any  older  and  shakier,  it  would  be  too  great 
a  disappointment ;  and  one  day,  when  her  mother 
was  gone  to  "  pass  the  afternoon  with  Harriet," 
Aunt  Betsy,  feeling  as  though  she  were  commit- 
ting a  theft,  took  three  dollars  from  her  upper 
bureau  drawer,  tied  up  the  bandbox  containing 
her  best  cap,  and,  arrayed  in  her  "shot  silk" 
gown  and  Brother  Ben's  pin,  set  out  with  palpi- 
tating heart  for  the  photograph  saloon.  It  was 
her  first  visit  to  the  place,  but  she  knew  the 
entrance  well. 

The  short  walk  was  accomplished  all  too  soon, 
and  long  before  she  had  gathered  courage  she 
found  herself  confronted  with  the  great  glass 
case,  filled  with  specimens  of  the  photographer's 
art,  on  which  she  had  often  gazed  with  admira- 
tion. As  she  stopped  a  moment  to  study  the 
stony  or  smirking  features  of  her  fellow-towns- 
men, she  received  an  unexpected  shock.  In  the 
very  middle  of  the  case,  a  strangely  familiar 
countenance  met  her  eye,  and  seemingly  returned 
her  gaze  with  the  light  of  recognition.  The 


12  Pratt  Portraits. 

photograph  was  enlarged  to  about  ten  times  its 
normal  size,  and  had  thus  become  a  startlingly 
realistic  presentment  of  the  original.  It  was  no 
other  than  Sister  Harriet,  with  her  jet-black 
4 'false  front,"  her  white  muslin  "  bosom,"  and 
the  large  diamond  ring  on  the  forefinger  of  her 
right  hand.  Betsy's  heart  almost  stopped  beat- 
ing as  she  gazed,  fascinated,  into  the  familiar 
face ;  but  its  expression  of  fixed  self-compla- 
cency could  not,  even  to  her  guilty  conscience, 
seem  disapproving,  and  somewhat  encouraged 
she  respectfully  took  her  leave  of  it,  and  began 
the  ascent  of  the  four  flights  of  stairs  which  led 
to  the  photographic  Parnassus. 

Arrived,  panting  and  perturbed,  at  the  door, 
which  opened  directly  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
it  was  some  time  before  she  could  make  up  her 
mind  to  go  into  the  mysterious  sanctuary  where 
occult  arts  were  practised  ;  and  besides,  she  kept 
telling  herself  that  if  she  were  to  meet  one  of  her 
acquaintances  she  should  "sink  through  the 
floor."  In  this  respect  Fate  was  kind  ;  for  when 
at  last  she  summoned  courage  to  open  the  door 
and  go  in,  she  found  the  room  untenanted.  A 
strange  uncanny  odor  greeted  her  entrance  into 
the  bare,  empty  room,  and  she  looked  about  her 
with  a  vague  uneasiness,  half  expecting  to  see  a 
wicked  magician  emerge  from  the  curtained  glass 
door  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  To  her  infinite 
relief,  a  meek-looking  little  man  of  a  blond  com- 
plexion came  forward  and  politely  offered  his 
services. 


Aunt  Betsys  Photographs.  13 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Billings,  the  photographer  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  an  awe-struck  tone. 

'  *  At  your  service,  madam, ' '  he  replied.  If  only 
Aunt  Betsy  could  have  heard  the  deferential 
words  and  tone ! 

"I  came  to  sit  for  my  photograph." 

"  Certainly,  madam  ;  certainly.  Will  you  step 
into  the  operating-room  ?  '  * 

"I  am  a  little  hard  of  hearing,"  said  Aunt 
Betsy,  with  an  inclination  of  the  head  ;  and  per- 
ceiving, after  several  attempts,  that  she  was  indeed 
' '  a  little  hard  of  hearing,  "*the  little  man  shouted, 
in  a  voice  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  masto- 
don :  ' '  The  operating-room  is  this  way. ' ' 

The  ghastly  word  struck  terror  to  Aunt  Betsy's 
soul,  and  her  head  began  to  shake  nervously. 
"  There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  faltered, 
though  speaking  with  all  the  dignity  she  could 
command.  "  I  wish  to  sit  for  my  photograph." 

' '  Certainly,  madam  ;  certainly.  Just  step  this 
way,  if  you  please ' ' ;  and  with  a  reassuring  smile 
and  a  cheerful  alacrity  not  to  be  resisted,  he  led 
the  way  into  the  adjoining  room. 

It  was  a  dazzlingly  bright  apartment,  with  a 
bare  yet  cluttered  look,  which  Aunt  Betsy  could 
not  approve.  There  were  chairs  and  tables  in 
meaningless  situations,  pictured  screens  leaning 
helplessly  against  one  another,  and  the  evil-look- 
ing tripod  mysteriously  draped  in  green  baize. 

"  Mr.  Billings,  the  photographer,"  disappeared 
behind  the  screens,  and  left  Aunt  Betsy  standing, 
dazed,  in  the  middle  of  thq  room. 


14  Pratt  Portraits. 

Suddenly  the  mastodon  voice  at  her  ear  shouted: 
"Are  you  fond  of  foreign  travel,  ma'am?  Here 
is  a  very  handsome  ruin  for  a  background." 

Turning,  with  a  start,  Aunt  Betsy  beheld  a 
screen  decorated  with  broken  Corinthian  columns 
and  a  Roman  aqueduct.  She  thought  it  very 
fine,  but  before  she  had  time  to  confess  that  she 
had  never  been  out  of  Middlevale  County,  the 
obliging  young  man  had  whisked  out  a  wonderful 
landscape,  representing  a  majestic  water-fall  and 
several  impossible  trees. 

"Perhaps  you  prefer  a  bit  of  nature,  ma'am," 
he  roared.  That,  too,  was  very  beautiful,  but 
both  seemed  to  her  a  little  ambitious  for  a  person 
who  had  never  seen  a  water-fall,  nor  dreamed  of 
a  Roman  aqueduct.  There  was  a  familiar  look 
about  those  Corinthian  pillars,  which  she  asso- 
ciated with  Sister  Harriet's  picture  ;  but  then,  it 
would  not  be  presumptuous  in  Sister  Harriet,  who 
might  have  travelled  in  foreign  parts  any  time 
these  ten  years,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  dan- 
gerous ocean. 

While  she  was  pondering  thus  on  the  fitness  of 
things,  the  indefatigable  Mr.  Billings  produced 
another  screen,  covered  with  grape-vines  such  as 
grew  on  the  wood-shed  at  home.  And  then,  oh, 
wonder  of  wonders  !  he  drew  forth  a  wicket  gate 
of  the  most  picturesque  description,  and  placed  it 
alluringly  before  the  grape-vine. 

"There,  madam  !  "  he  shouted,  "  if  you  would 
stand  in  a  natural  attitude  behind  that  gate,  with 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  15 

your  right  hand  upon  the  top,  as  though  about  to 
pass  through,  I  think  you  would  find  the  effect 
artistic." 

This  was  a  long  effort  for  the  mastodon  voice, 
but  the  word  * '  artistic  ' '  was  distinctly  audible, 
and  the  young  man  placed  his  own  hand  upon  the 
gate  in  a  manner  which  appealed  so  strongly  to 
Aunt  Betsy's  imagination  that  she  assented  timidly 
to  the  arrangement.  Mr.  Billings  then  kindly 
anticipated  a  difficulty  which  would  have  seemed 
to  Aunt  Betsy  insurmountable,  by  showing  her 
into  a  small  closet,  furnished  with  a  looking  glass 
and  a  gas-jet,  where  she  could  remove  her  bonnet 
and  don  her  cap  without  ' *  exposing  ' '  herself. 

When  she  returned  she  found  Mr.  Billings 
handling  some  queer  little  slates  resembling  those 
which  the  children  carried  to  school.  He  slipped 
one  into  the  camera,  and  then,  coming  forward, 
proceeded  to  station  his  "subject"  in  front  of 
the  grape-vine,  her  right  hand,  in  a  black  lace 
mitt,  reposing  upon  the  wicket  gate,  and  her  volu- 
minous skirts  spreading  on  either  side.  Then  a 
tall  iron  stand  was  placed  at  her  back,  and  a  pair 
of  cold  prongs  inserted  under  the  purple  ribbons 
behind  each  ear ;  after  which  Mr.  Billings  with- 
drew behind  his  camera  and  enveloped  his  head 
in  the  green  baize.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to 
Aunt  Betsy  almost  as  though  he  were  trifling  with 
her,  but  when  he  again  emerged,  with  his  face 
very  red  and  his  hair  much  dishevelled,  there  was 
a  look  of  professional  gravity  and  concentration 


1 6  Pratt  Portraits. 

upon  his  amiable  countenance  which  dispelled 
such  thoughts ;  and  even  when  he  tripped  back 
to  her  and  took  her  temples  delicately  between 
his  thumbs  and  lightly  chucked  her  under  the 
chin  to  improve  the  pose,  she  felt  convinced 
that  the  sudden  flush  which  mounted  to  her  brow 
was  quite  uncalled  for. 

Having  moved  off  a  little,  cocked  his  head  first 
on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  Mr.  Billings 
again  retreated  beneath  the  green  baize.  In  a 
moment  he  came  smiling  back,  rubbing  his  hands 
together  and  murmuring  :  "  Excellent,  really  ex- 
cellent ' ' ;  and  then,  in  stentorian  tones  he  shouted: 
"Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  moisten  your 
lips,  madam  ?  Thank  you.  Now  fix  your  eyes  on 
that  black  spot  on  the  wall.  I^ook  pleasant. 
Yes — very  good,  very  good.  Wink  freely,  but 
do  not  move  your  head." 

Oh,  the  comfort  of  those  iron  tongs  ! 

Vaguely  wishing  that  she  had  such  a  pair  at 
home,  Aunt  Betsy  braced  her  untrustworthy  head 
against  them  and  stood  in  the  glaring  light,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  foolish  black  spot  which 
danced  perplexingly  before  her,  her  lips  tightly 
closed,  and  a  strange,  unearthly  look  graven  upon 
her  countenance. 

When  release  came,  the  poor  old  lady  was 
almost  too  cramped  to  move  or  to  feel  the  exulta- 
tion natural  to  a  released  victim.  Truly,  the 
' '  operating-room  ' '  was  aptly  named,  in  those 
first  stages  of  the  black-and-white  art. 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  ij 

But,  a  few  minutes  later,  when  Aunt  Betsy  paid 
her  three  dollars  in  advance  and  engaged  to  call 
for  the  photographs, — "Thank  you,  I  would 
rather  not  give  my  address  or  have  them  sent 
home — I  want  to  surprise  my  folks,"— a  delicious 
feeling  came  over  her  of  living  in  a  wonderful 
age,  and  of  being,  at  last,  fully  abreast  of  the 
times. 

Some  days  of  suppressed  excitement  passed, 
and  at  last  the  photographs  were  finished  and 
delivered  into  her  hands,  and  she  knew,  with  a 
guilty  knowledge,  that  the  time  had  come  for  her 
to  ' '  surprise  her  folks. ' '  She  hurried  home,  look- 
ing neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  the  pre- 
cious package  buried  in  the  depths  of  her  pocket, 
entered  the  house  surreptitiously  as  a  burglar, 
and  crept  up  to  her  own  room.  When  the  dooi 
was  securely  fastened,  she  took  a  long  breath, 
and  then  proceeded,  not  to  examine  the  pictures, 
but  to  put  her  bonnet  and  shawl  carefully  away, 
smooth  her  hair  with  a  fine-tooth  comb,  and 
adjust  her  cap  before  the  glass  ;  then  she  tied  on 
her  black  silk  apron,  and  sat  down  by  the  open 
window,  holding  the  little  package  in  her  hand. 

It  was  a  brilliant  September  day,  and  she  sat 
looking  out  into  the  great  horse-chestnut  tree 
before  the  window.  Her  father  had  planted  it 
forty-five  years  ago,  for  he  liked  to  have  horse- 
chestnuts  "handy."  He  firmly  believed  that 
they  would  ward  off  rheumatism  if  carried  in  the 
pocket ;  and  sure  enough,  as  Aunt  Betsy  reflected, 


1 8  Pratt  Portraits. 

he  had  never  had  a  twinge  of  rheumatism  in  the 
sixty  odd  years  of  his  life  ! 

In  the  horse-chestnut  tree  was  a  bird-cote  in 
the  shape  of  a  white-steepled  "  meeting-house." 
A  fat  little  sparrow,  perched  on  the  door-sill  of 
this  minute  edifice,  was  chirping  sharply.  Aunt 
Betsy  watched  his  agitated  little  body,  but  did  not 
hear  him  chirp.  In  the  yard  Eliza,  the  "  girl," 
was  vigorously  pumping,  causing  a  stream  of 
water  to  gush  noisily  into  the  pail,  and  Aunt 
Betsy  could  see  the  neighbor's  dog  barking  vo- 
ciferously at  a  cat  in  a  tree.  But  none  of  these 
sounds  penetrated  the  heavy  silence  in  which  she 
was  wrapped  about.  Only  the  beating  of  her 
pulse  throbbed  in  her  ears,  and  in  a  nervous 
tremor  she  delayed  opening  the  package,  much 
as  a  young  girl  might  delay  breaking  the  seal  of 
a  love-letter  when  once  she  had  it  in  secure  pos- 
session. So  alike  are  sensations  from  totally 
different  causes,  and  sensations  of  any  kind  being 
rare  in  Aunt  Betsy's  experience,  she  might  weU 
linger  a  little  over  this  one. 

But  at  last  she  had  drawn  one  of  the  little  cards 
from  the  package,  and  held  it  in  her  hand,  and  as 
the  pleasant  south  wind  fluttered  her  cap  ribbons, 
and  the  afternoon  sun  shone  kindly  upon  her,  she 
looked  shyly  at  her  pictured  countenance,  and  a 
sense  of  deep  satisfaction  transfused  itself  through 
her. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  contour  of  her  best 
cap ;  and  as  for  the  breastpin,  she  could  almost 


AUNT  BETSY 


Aunt  Betsy's  Photographs.  19 

count  the  seed-pearls  in  the  rim,  while  the  "  ar- 
tistic effect"  of  that  wicket-gate  seemed  to  her 
' '  too  pretty  for  anything. ' '  The  rigidity  of  the 
attitude  quite  escaped  her  uncritical  eye,  and  she 
failed  to  observe  that  the  accustomed  look  of  mild 
benevolence  which  sat  so  well  on  her  plain  face 
was  here  turned  to  an  expression  of  almost  sav- 
age intensity,  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  frown  on 
a  rabbit's  countenance. 

Yes,  Aunt  Betsy's  dream  was  realized.  She 
held  in  her  hand  twelve  unmistakable  likenesses 
of  her  "  Sunday  things,"  and  they  gave  her  as 
much  pleasure  as  the  most  brilliant  colored  paper- 
doll  had  caused  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl  in 
the  old  house,  and  could  hear  the  delightful  rattle 
of  the  blue  and  red  and  yellow  papers.  Even  a 
bit  of  color  was  not  lacking  to  her  new  treasures, 
for  the  photographer  had  touched  the  cheeks  of 
the  counterfeit  Aunt  Betsy  with  spots  of  vivid 
carmine. 

A  spot  almost  as  bright  glowed  in  each  cheek  of 
the  flesh-and-blood  Aunt  Betsy  as  she  descended 
into  the  sitting-room,  not,  indeed,  to  "surprise 
her  folks. ' '  She  could  not  yet  rid  herself  of  the 
feeling  of  guilt  connected  with  the  whole  transac- 
tion, and  she  dreaded  lest  her  mother  should  call 
her  a  fool,  as  she  had  promptly  done  whenever 
her  docile  daughter  had  committed  any  mild  in- 
discretion, such  as  wishing  for  a  * '  false  front ' ' 
when  her  hair  became  gray,  or  wondering  whether 
the  minister,  when  he  came  to  tea,  might  not  pre- 


2O  Pratt  Portraits. 

fer  fancy  tarts,  such  as  Sister  Harriet's  new-fan- 
gled cook  made,  to  the  old-fashioned  mince-pies. 

"  Betsy,  you  're  a  fool !  "  when  pronounced  by 
Old  I^ady  Pratt,  never  failed  to  penetrate  the  muf- 
fled hearing  like  a  gun-shot,  and  Betsy  used  to 
wish  within  herself  that  her  mother  would  put  it 
a  little  differently. 

Poor  Aunt  Betsy  had  been  so  promptly  put 
down  in  her  life  that  she  had  never  before  had  the 
sensation  of  committing  an  out-and-out  indiscre- 
tion. Now,  at  least,  she  had  it,  and  her  mother's 
quick  eye  instantly  detected  the  unwonted  flush. 

"  Betsy,"  cried  the  alert  old  lady,  "come here. 
Let  me  feel  your  pulse  !  Goodness  me,  child ! 
You  're  in  a  high  fever  !  You  've  caught  a  cold  ! 
You  ain't  been  settin'  by  an  open  window?  " 

The  gray-haired  culprit  admitted  that  she  had. 

11  Betsy,  you  're  a  fool  !  You  al'ays  was  full  of 
romantic  notions  about  open  windows.  You  '11 
jest  go  right  straight  to  bed,  and  drink  a  cup  of 
pennyr'yal  tea.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

Betsy  heard.  Old  I,ady  Pratt 's  reproofs  were 
always  audible,  even  to  her,  and  her  commands 
were  not  to  be  questioned.  So  Aunt  Betsy  was 
packed  away  to  bed,  while  the  exultation  died 
out  within  her,  and  the  old  patient  compliance 
returned  in  its  place.  She  lay  there  in  a  gentle 
apathy,  watching  the  last  ray  of  sunlight  die 
away  on  the  flowered  wall,  and  waiting  resign- 
edly for  the  unsavory  dose. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  the  straight 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  21 

little  figure  of  Mrs.  Pratt  entered,  well  lighted  up 
by  the  candle  she  held  in  one  hand,  while  in  the 
other  she  bore  a  smoking  bowl  of  tea.  Her  own 
cheeks  were  somewhat  flushed  from  bending  over 
the  fire.  She  set  the  candle  on  the  high  bureau, 
tasted  the  tea  herself  once  or  twice,  and  then, 
without  much  ceremony,  poured  the  scalding 
draught  down  her  patient's  throat ;  after  which 
she  felt  her  pulse  again,  and  asked  to  see  her 
tongue. 

"I  declare  for  't "  she  cried,  "if  you  're  not 
better  a' ready  !  There  never  was  anything  like 
my  pennyr'yal  tea  for  stoppin'  a  cold  off  short ! 
Now  you  turn  over  and  go  right  to  sleep,  and 
you  '11  be  as  good  as  new  in  the  mornin'." 

The  old  lady  meant  kindly ;  but  what  words 
could  sound  kind,  spoken  in  a  high  falsetto? 
Poor  Aunt  Betsy  !  I  wonder  if  she  herself  real- 
ized what  she  missed  in  never  hearing  the  voices 
of  her  fellow-creatures  in  their  natural  tones.  No 
one  could  ever  speak  tenderly  to  her,  nor  sooth- 
ingly, nor  confidentially.  All  those  softer  accents, 
so  much  more  eloquent  than  words,  must  be  for- 
ever lost  to  her ;  she  could  only  know  the  voices 
of  her  friends  in  the  harsh,  strained  pitch  which 
they  must  take  to  reach  her  ears. 

Days  and  weeks  went  by  after  Betsy's  won- 
derful cure  and  the  secret  of  her  escapade  was 
still  her  own.  She  shrank  more  and  more  from 
confessing  what  she  had  done,  and  yet  she  was 
tortured  by  the  feeling  that  it  had  been  a  "  dread- 


22  Pratt  Portraits. 

ful  waste  of  money,"  if  she  was  going  to  keep 
those  twelve  photographs  for  herself.  She  some- 
times thought  of  confessing  the  whole  thing  to 
kind  Brother  Ben,  or  of  boldly  offering  a  "pic- 
ture ' '  to  Sister  Harriet ;  but,  at  the  very  sugges- 
tion, her  whole  family  seemed  to  rise  before  her 
in  scorn  and  derision,  and  she  seemed  to  hear  a 
chorus  of  brothers  and  sisters,  nephews  and  nieces, 
joining  in  her  mother's  piercing  denunciation, 

"You  're  a  fool,  Betsy  !  you  're  a  fool ! " 

She  began  to  have  a  distaste  for  the  things,  and 
to  entertain  daring  thoughts  of  putting  them  all 
into  the  kitchen  fire.  But  she  knew  that  would 
be  an  abominably  weak  and  wicked  proceeding, 
and  she  was  not  sufficiently  hardened  to  do  it. 

It  was  really  wearing  upon  her.  She  did  not 
sleep,  as  she  had  been  used,  from  ten  o'clock  at 
night  till  five  or  six  in  the  morning ;  she  lost 
her  appetite  little  by  little,  and  her  grateful  smile 
came  less  readily  in  response  to  unintelligible 
remarks  addressed  to  her  by  afternoon  callers. 
Old  L,ady  Pratt  confided  to  Harriet  that  she  was 
' '  afeard  Betsy  was  goin'  to  break  up  early  ;  she 
seemed  to  be  losing  her  spent." 

Poor  Betsy,  as  though  she  had  ever  had  any 
spirit  to  lose ! 

So  nearly  three  months  wore  away,  and  Aunt 
Betsy  began  to  fear  that  she  had  sacrificed  her 
peace  of  mind  for  good  and  all. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  December,  Brother  Ben 
came  in  with  his  youngest  daughter  Hattie,  a  girl 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  23 

about  twelve  years  old.  They  were  both  lightly 
sprinkled  with  snow,  and  after  tramping  about  a 
good  deal  on  the  oil-cloth  in  the  entry,  they  came 
smiling  in,  bringing  a  gust  of  cold  air  with 
them. 

"  Well,  Mother;  well  Betsy,"  Ben  began,  im- 
mediately. "  Hattie  's  got  a  surprise  for  you. 
She  's  been  having  her  picture  taken  again,  all 
dressed  up  in  her  Red  Riding-hood  cape.  She 
looks  mighty  cute  ;  you  just  see  if  she  don't." 

And  Hattie,  proud  and  pleased,  exhibited  the 
picture  to  her  admiring  elders.  The  slender, 
hooded  form  in  the  photograph  was  standing  be- 
hind the  little  wicket  gate  which  Aunt  Betsy 
knew  so  well,  and  Grandma  was  much  taken 
with  it. 

' '  Well,  I  never ! "  she  cried.  ' '  How  cute  it  is, 
to  be  sure  !  Who  but  Hattie  Pratt  would  have 
thought  of  being  taken  comin'  through  a 
gate?" 

And  impressed  with  the  weight  of  her  own 
remark,  she  repeated  it  in  her  shrillest  tones 
to  Betsy. 

"Who  indeed?"  thought  Betsy,  longing,  but 
not  daring  to  lay  claim  to  equal  brilliancy. 

"  It  was  a  pretty  idea,"  she  said,  meekly.  "  I 
wish  you  'd  give  me  one,  Hattie,  to  put  in  my 
photograph  album.' 

Hattie  looked  up  brightly  at  her  deaf  old 
aunt,  and  said,  with  decision,  "  I  don't  give  these 
away  ;  I  only  exchange." 


24  Pratt  Portraits. 

"But,  Hattie,"  said  her  father,  "you'd  give 
your  Aunt  Betsy  one  !  You  know  she  never  had 
her  picture  taken." 

"Then  she'll  have  to,  if  she  wants  mine," 
tsaid  the  pert  little  person. 

"What  did  she  say?"  asked  Aunt  Betsy,  a 
great  resolution  already  half  formed  in  her  mind. 

"  She  says  you  'd  better  have  your  own  picture 
taken  before  you  go  askin1  other  people  for 
theirs,"  said  Grandma,  not  ill-pleased  to  hear 
Betsy  snubbed  for  her  unreasonableness  in  want- 
ing a  picture  all  to  herself. 

It  was  now  or  never,  and  Betsy  knew  it. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  rising,  and  looking  an 
inch  taller.  "I  '11  exchange  with  you."  And 
she  marched  out  of  the  room,  erect  and  deter- 
mined leaving  her  family  speechless  with  aston- 
ishment. 

Without  giving  herself  time  to  think  of  conse- 
quences, she  seized  her  twelve  photographs,  and 
hurried  back  to  the  sitting-room. 

"  There  !  "  she  said,  rather  explosively,  "  you 
can  have  your  choice,  Hattie." 

Old  I,ady  Pratt,  doubting  her  senses,  seized  one 
of  the  pictures,  looked  at  it,  then  looked  at  Betsy. 
The  likeness  was  unmistakable  ;  it  was  ' '  Betsy 
all  over,"  as  she  admitted  to  herself.  But  she 
was  so  divided  in  her  mind  between  horror  at  her 
daughter's  duplicity,  and  admiration  of  her 
1 '  smartness, ' '  that  she  let  Ben  have  the  first  word. 
He  came  nobly  to  the  rescue. 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  25 

"  Well,  Betsy  !  "  he  cried.  "  If  you  ain't  a  sly 
one  !  Think  of  that,  Mother.  To  go  all  by  her- 
self, as  independent  as  a  chipmunk,  and  have  her 
picture  taken  !  Well,  you  have  given  us  a  sur- 
prise, Betsy  !  " 

Betsy  heard  nothing  of  this,  and  not  daring  to 
look  at  her  mother  and  Ben,  she  watched  Hattie, 
who  was  gazing  with  the  greatest  interest  at  the 
picture.  Presently  Hattie  looked  up  into  her 
aunt's  troubled  face,  and  with  a  sudden  intuition, 
perhaps  the  first  movement  of  genuine  sympathy 
she  had  ever  known,  the  girl  took  in  the  situa- 
tion. She  jumped  up,  and  giving  her  aunt  a 
hearty  kiss,  cried : 

"  Thank  you  so  much,  Aunt  Betsy.  It 's  ever 
so  good.  I  believe  I  'd  rather  have  a  picture 
of  you  than  of  'most  any  body — that  I  have  n't 
got,"  she  added,  truthfully. 

Aunt  Betsy  heard  every  word  of  this  kind  little 
scream,  but  she  was  almost  too  embarrassed  to 
answer. 

"Why,  Hattie,"  she  stammered,  "I'm  so 
glad  !  I  did  n't  know ' ' 

"Oh!  you're  a  sly  one,"  roared  Ben.  "I 
always  said  you  were  a  sly  one,  and  did  n't  tell 
all  you  knew  !  Is  n't  she  a  sly  one,  Mother  ?  " 

"  Well,"  screamed  Mrs.  Pratt,  "  it  was  mighty 
clever  of  you  to  be  taken  behind  that  wicket  gate, 
I  must  say.  And  your  shot  silk  has  come  out 
beautifully." 

Aunt  Betsy  felt  very  much  as  a  released  convict 


26  Pratt  Portraits. 

must  feel  if  met  by  a  band  of  music  and  a  delega- 
tion of  distinguished  citizens,  announcing  to  him 
that  he  had  been  elected  mayor  of  the  city.  From 
the  very  start  she  perceived  that  those  photo- 
graphs were  to  be  the  success  of  her  life.  Each 
member  of  the  family  insisted  upon  having  one, 
and  all  the  neighbors  admired  them  and  offered  to 
exchange.  Aunt  Betsy's  album  filled  up  fast. 
Brother  Ben  had  two  dozen  more  struck  off  at  his 
own  expense,  and  for  days  and  days  Aunt  Betsy 
lived  in  a  delightful  flutter  of  excitement.  The 
most  indolent  of  their  visitors  would  exert  herself 
to  scream,  "  Betsy,  I  hear  you  've  been  sitting  for 
your  picture ' '  ;  and  not  a  day  went  by  without 
an  exhibition  of  the  ever  dwindling  number. 

The  crowning  moment  came  on  New  Year's 
Day,  when  Brother  Ben  arrived,  bringing  a  mys- 
terious flat  parcel,  which  he  presented  to  his 
mother,  with  a  roguish  side  glance  at  Betsy.  She 
looked  on  with  lively  curiosity,  but  little  prepared 
for  what  was  coming.  There,  in  a  shiny  black 
frame,  was  an  enormously  enlarged  copy  of 
Betsy's  picture,  in  which  the  pin  seemed  almost 
life-size,  and  the  expression  of  stern  determina- 
tion was  fairly  appalling. 

Perhaps  Old  I^ady  Pratt  had  never  felt  so  fond 
and  proud  of  Betsy  since  she  was  a  bright  little 
child  like  other  children,  as  she  did  when  she 
gazed  upon  that  * (  handsome  picture. ' ' 

It  was  hung  up  in  the  best  parlor,  over  the  hair- 
cloth sofa  ;  and  later  in  the  day,  when  mother  and 


Aunt  Betsy  s  Photographs.  27 

daughter  stood  side  by  side  before  it,  the  sharp 
little  old  lady  laid  her  hand  with  an  affectionate 
pressure  on  the  other's  shoulder,  and  said : 
"That 's  about  the  smartest  thing  you  ever  did, 
Betsy,  I  declare  for  't." 

And  I  think  Betsy  went  to  bed  that  night  the 
happiest  old  woman  in  Green  Street. 


IL 
HARRIET. 

HARRIET  had  always  been  an  authority 
in  her  small  world  ;  and  it  was  not  such 
a  very  small  world  either,  as  worlds  go. 
Not  only  was  she  a  person  of  conse- 
quence, now,  when  she  was  the  head  of  a  family 
and  mistress  of  a  fortune — her  importance  was 
of  longer  standing  than  that.  To  begin  with,  she 
had  been  the  eldest  of  a  family  of  brothers  and 
sisters,  who  had  looked  up  to  her  with  an  unques- 
tioning respect,  which  even  an  eldest  sister  is  by 
no  means  sure  of  inspiring.  But  Harriet  was  '  *  her 
mother's  own  child,"  upright  and  firm,  with  that 
natural  self-respect  which  is  a  law  unto  itself. 
Such  an  advantage,  while  sparing  its  possessor 
many  a  brush  with  those  in  authority,  invests 
him  with  a  nimbus  of  infallibility  very  impressive 
to  younger  and  less  well-balanced  minds.  Mrs. 
Anson  Pratt,  to  be  sure,  was  not  the  woman  to 
yield  the  reins  of  government  to  any  rival  power, 
yet  her  daughter  Harriet  early  became  her  chief 
adviser  in  such  small  matters  of  family  economy 
and  discipline  as  she  thought  unworthy  the 
28 


Harriet.  29 

consideration  of  her  husband's  larger  intelli- 
gence. 

Under  these  favoring  conditions  Harriet  grew 
to  be  a  tall,  self-possessed  maiden ;  and  as  the 
handsomest  and  cleverest  young  woman  of  his 
acquaintance,  was  early  wooed  and  won  by  the 
handsome  and  clever  young  business  man  James 
Spencer. 

Indeed  prosperity  had  marked  her  for  its  own 
from  her  very  cradle.  For  while  she  was  still  in 
undisputed  possession  of  that  infant  refuge,  her 
mother's  bachelor  brother,  William  Kingsbury, 
had  died,  leaving  to  his  little  niece  a  legacy  of 
two  thousand  dollars.  This  befell  in  the  good  old 
times  when  two  thousand  dollars  was  a  tidy  sum, 
and  when  money,  being  properly  invested, 
doubled  itself  faster  than  is  the  case  to-day.  As 
their  family  increased  in  numbers  a  trifle  faster 
than  the  family  income  grew,  Anson  Pratt  and 
his  wife  would  often  remind  one  another  that 
"Harriet  was  well  provided  for."  The  Pratts 
were  plain,  unworldly  people,  not  at  all  inclined 
to  pay  undue  deference  to  riches ;  yet  one  is 
tempted  to  wonder  whether,  if  the  little  Harriet's 
future  had  been  less  assured,  she  might  not 
sometimes  have  been  called  Hattie.  The  fact  of 
never  having  known  the  levelling  influences  of  a 
nickname  is  in  itself  not  without  weight  in  the 
sum  of  one's  personal  dignity. 

During  the  many  prosperous  years  that  had 
elapsed  since  she  had  become  Mrs.  James  Spencer, 


30  Pratt  Portraits. 

Harriet  had  tasted,  one  after  another,  the  natural 
joys  and  the  natural  sorrows  of  life,  and  now  that 
she  was  nearing  the  further  boundaries  of  middle 
life  she  had  become  more  and  more  the  practical 
woman — the  woman  of  affairs  ;  the  woman  who 
was  oftener  appealed  to  for  counsel  than  for  sym- 
pathy. Her  smooth  * '  false  front, ' '  her  black  eyes, 
her  straight  nose  and  well-closed  mouth  were  all 
calculated  to  command  respect.  She  was  tall,  and 
she  felt  her  height ;  physically  as  well  as  men- 
tally and  morally  she  was  unbending. 

Even  her  great  sorrow,  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, which  had  occurred  fifteen  years  previous, 
had  come  to  be  to  her  a  regrettable  fact  rather  than 
an  active  emotion.  Years  and  a  strong  will  had 
done  their  work. 

Yet  for  many  weeks  after  James  Spencer's 
death  Harriet  had  felt  with  consternation  that  she 
was  not  self-sufficient.  A  strange,  unreasoning 
sense  of  helplessness  had  oppressed  her,  which 
was  even  harder  to  bear  than  her  actual  grief. 

The  most  vivid  memory  which  she  had  of  her 
husband's  last  days  was  that  of  a  certain  gloomy 
afternoon  in  November,  when  she  had  sat  at  his 
bedside,  and  they  had  taken  counsel  together  for 
the  last  time.  It  was  several  days  before  his 
death,  which  they  both  knew  to  be  close  at  hand. 
She  had  been  sitting,  erect  and  self-contained, 
while  her  husband  slept,  sternly  denying  herself 
the  luxury  of  grief,  simply  facing  the  inevitable 
with  rigid  endurance.  The  rain  was  pattering 


Harriet.  31 

upon  the  tin  roof  of  the  piazza  beneath  the  win- 
dows, and  the  sky  was  dreary  as  her  thoughts.  It 
seemed  to  her  afterward  that  that  pattering  rain, 
which  continued  persistently  for  three  days,  had 
worn  a  groove  in  her  consciousness,  causing  her 
to  shrink  from  the  sound  as  from  a  physical  pain. 
Her  family  wondered  that  she  should  have  her 
piazza  roof  shingled  almost  immediately  after 
James'  death,  and  her  mother,  Old  I^ady  Pratt, 
declared  it  to  be  a  "  downright  piece  of  extrava- 
gance," and  hoped  she  "  was  n't  goin'  to  be  dis- 
app'inted  in  Harriet  after  all  these  years."  But 
Harriet  knew  that  when  the  shingles  dulled  the 
sound  of  the  pattering  drops  she  could  think  more 
naturally  of  her  trouble,  and  it  was  peculiarly 
necessary  that  she  should  allow  nothing  to  dis- 
turb her  balance.  For  the  same  event  which  had 
taken  from  her  a  strong  support  had  also  imposed 
upon  her  unaccustomed  responsibilities.  On  that 
dreary  afternoon,  which  she  remembered  so  well, 
her  husband  had  quietly  opened  his  eyes,  and 
without  making  any  other  movement  to  indicate 
his  return  to  consciousness,  he  had  said  :  * '  Har- 
riet, I  have  left  all  the  money  to  you. ' ' 

This  simplicity  of  speech  was  characteristic  of 
James  Spencer.  He  had  been  a  genial  and  rather 
demonstrative  man  in  every-day  life,  but  in  mat- 
ters that  touched  him  deeply  he  disliked  effusion. 
He  could  trust  his  wife  to  meet  him  in  his  own 
spirit. 

"  All,  James  ?  "  she  queried. 


32  Pratt  Portraits. 

1 '  Yes,  all;  I  leave  you  to  provide  for  the  children 
according  to  your  judgment. ' ' 

"It  is  not  the  usual  way,"  she  said,  with  an 
anxious  look. 

"It  would  be,  if  all  married  people  were  like 
you  and  me. ' ' 

She  sat  for  some  time,  pondering  his  words. 
Then,  "  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "but  it  seems 
to  me  the  old  way  is  a  very  good  one.  If  I  had 
my — "  No,  she  could  not  say  "widow's  third  " 
and  maintain  her  composure.  ' '  Tell  me, ' '  she 
asked  instead,  '  'why  you  have  acted  so  out  of  the 
common.  I  should  like  to  know  your  reasons." 

"  Well,  Harriet,  I  look  at  it  in  this  way.  If  I 
had  lived  out  my  natural  life,  there  would  n't  have 
been  any  division  of  property,  and  I  can't  see 
why  matters  should  n't  rest  just  as  they  are.  It 's 
partly  on  your  account,"  he  went  on,  "and  still 
more  on  account  of  the  children.  You  '  ve  always 
been  the  best  judge  of  what  was  good  for  them. 
Besides,"  he  added,  after  a  few  more  words  of 
explanation,  "  I  've  been  in  the  habit  of  consid- 
ering that  the  money  was  as  much  yours  as 
mine. ' ' 

Again  he  paused,  and  Harriet  did  not  break 
the  silence.  I/ater,  when  the  early  dusk  was  in 
the  chamber,  he  said,  "You  and  I  have  always 
been  very  united,  Harriet." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  took  it  in 
both  hers. 

"  Dear  girl  !  "  he  whispered. 


Harriet.  33 

If  she  had  been  of  a  brooding  nature  she  would 
have  taken  a  mournful  pleasure  ever  after  in  the 
pattering  rain  upon  the  tin  roof.  But  she  was 
indulgent  neither  to  herself  nor  to  others,  and  as 
she  entered  upon  her  widowhood  she  deliberately 
composed  her  mind  to  a  calm  acquiescence,  which, 
like  the  shingled  roof,  gave  forth  the  least  pos- 
sible vibration  to  reminders  of  her  sorrow. 

Her  four  sons  and  her  two  married  daughters 
had  all  escaped  the  quicksands  of  youth,  and  were 
now  well  launched  upon  their  several  careers. 
She  could  not  but  take  pride  in  her  successful 
guidance,  to  which  she  justly  attributed  a  share 
in  this  happy  consummation.  She  had  now  but 
one  child  remaining  with  her  in  her  spacious 
house,  the  "  little  I^ucy,"  as  she  still  was  called, 
a  good,  obedient  girl  of  eighteen,  who  had  never 
given  her  mother  a  moment's  trouble.  Hers  was 
a  figure  that  was  rarely  present  to  her  mother's 
mind  during  the  anxious  vigils  which  that  re- 
sponsible woman  kept.  Hers  was  the  name  least 
often  mentioned  in  her  mother's  prayers ;  for 
Harriet  was,  in  her  way,  a  religious  woman.  She 
was  not  as  zealous  a  church  member  as  one  would 
have  expected  so  active  and  capable  a  woman  to 
be.  Indeed,  her  own  affairs  might  well  absorb 
her  energies.  But  her  private  devotions  were 
none  the  less  earnest.  She  did  much  of  what  her 
mother  once  called  "thinking  on  her  knees." 
She  was  sometimes  vaguely  aware,  after  a  longer 
maintenance  of  this  attitude  than  was  usual,  that 


34  Pratt  Portraits. 

she  had  been  silently  talking  things  over  rather 
than  offering  praise  or  supplication.  Yet  these 
prolonged  statements  of  her  case  before  a  perfect 
Intelligence  often  brought  her  to  a  better  under- 
standing of  her  own  needs  and  her  own  best  course 
than  she  could  otherwise  have  reached.  If  her 
religious  rites  lacked  piety,  they  were  at  least 
alive  with  conscience.  And  though  all  her  chil- 
dren were  remembered  in  these  secret  commu- 
nings,  little  L,ucy's  name  was  so  unsuggestive  of 
perplexities  that  it  rarely  received  more  than  a 
passing  mention. 

One  brilliant  winter's  day  I/ucy  came  down 
stairs  arrayed  in  her  squirrel  tippet  and  muff,  and 
wearing  a  little  squirrel  cap  which  sat  jauntily  on 
her  bright  brown  hair.  She  had  a  fine  color,  and 
as  she  stopped  at  the  sitting-room  door  to  say 
that  she  was  going  over  to  see  Grandma  and 
Aunt  Betsy,  her  mother  was  struck  by  her  good 
looks.  Indeed,  so  pleasant  was  the  impression 
she  received  that  Harriet,  usually  rather  unsus- 
ceptible to  merely  ' '  skin-deep  ' '  charms,  got  up 
from  her  chair,  and  still  holding  her  sewing  in 
her  hand,  stepped  to  the  window  to  look  out. 
I/ucy  lingered  for  a  moment  at  the  top  of  the 
long  flight  of  stone  steps,  down  which  she  then 
passed  with  a  pretty,  swaying  motion  all  her  own. 
1  'L,ittle  lyucy  "  had  a  good  height,  and  was  in 
other  respects  more  like  her  mother  than  any  one 
had  yet  discovered.  As  she  reached  the  drive- 
way below  she  turned  abruptly,  with  a  remark- 


Harriet.  35 

ably  bright  smile,  and  bowed.  Following  the 
direction  of  her  glance,  her  mother  beheld  a 
surprising  apparition.  At  the  side  gate  stood  a 
young  man  wearing  a  corduroy  jacket,  and  hold- 
ing in  his  hand  a  broader-brimmed  hat  than  was 
then  the  fashion.  His  close  cropped  head  thus 
exposed  was  a  particularly  shapely  one,  though 
that  good  point  was  lost  upon  his  sharp-eyed 
observer.  She  meanwhile  could  see  that  he  was 
speaking,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Lucy's  ex- 
pressive face  she  would  have  supposed  that  he 
was  a  stranger  inquiring  his  way.  What,  then, 
was  her  astonishment  when  the  smiling  Lucy 
went  toward  the  side  gate,  greeted  the  still 
hatless  individual  with  outstretched  hand,  and, 
turning,  walked  away  with  him  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  "Grandma's."  Harriet  found 
herself  supplied  with  food  for  reflection  which 
occupied  her  the  rest  of  the  morning. 

Shortly  before  dinner  the  truant  Lucy  appeared, 
looking  flushed  and  happy,  and  unmindful  of  her 
mother's  stern  countenance,  proceeded  to  take  off 
her  gloves  and  loosen  her  tippet.  Harriet,  appar- 
ently intent  upon  her  seam,  sewed  steadily  on, 
waiting  for  the  child  to  speak. 

11 1  did  n't  go  to  Grandma's  after  all,"  said 
Lucy,  stepping  to  the  front  window  and  gazing 
in  an  absorbed  way  across  the  snow. 

Harriet  stopped  her  sewing  and  looked  up, 
expectant. 

' '  Where  did  you  go  ?  "  she  asked. 


36  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  I  went  to  walk  with  Frank  Enderby.  We 
walked  away  out  into  the  country  and  it  was 
perfectly  glorious." 

The  girl  had  turned  her  glowing  face  toward 
her  mother. 

"  Frank  Knderby  !  "  Harriet  repeated,  with  in- 
creased displeasure.  '  *  Was  that  Italian-looking 
man,  waiting  for  you  at  the  gate,  Frank  Ender- 
by?" 

"Why,  yes  !  Did  you  see  him?  And  didn't 
you  know  him?" 

"  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  When  did 
he  come  back  ? ' ' 

"The  i4th  of  last  month,"  said  lyucy,  with 
prompt  exactitude. 

"  And  have  you  seen  much  of  him  ?  " 

"I  Jve  seen  him  three  times,  not  counting  to- 
day." 

"  Where  have  you  been  seeing  him  ?  " 

"The  first  time  was  at  Annie  Owen's  party. 
And  then  I  saw  him  at  church  the  next  Sunday ; 
and  yesterday  he  was  calling  at  Annie's  when  I 
was  there." 

"Why  did  n't  you  mention  him  to  me  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I^ucy,  promptly  taking 
refuge  in  a  time-honored  subterfuge. 

4 '  You  must  at  least  know  that  you  were  behav- 
ing very  improperly,  when  you  took  a  long  walk 
with  a  young  man  I  'm  not  acquainted  with." 

"  I  know,  Mother ;  but  I  really  did  n't  mean  to. 
He  asked  me  if  he  might  not  walk  with  me  to 


Harriet.  37 

Grandma's,  by  way  of  the  common,  and  before  we 
knew  it  we  were  going  down  Kim  Street.  You 
have  no  idea, ' '  she  continued,  with  renewed  ani- 
mation, '  *  how  lovely  the  bare  branches  of  the 
trees  were  against  the  sky.  I  had  never  noticed 
them  so  much  myself,  till  Frank  pointed  them 
out  to  me.  He  said  it  was  the  best  lesson  in 
architecture  a  man  could  have,  just  to  see  how 
they  met  and  divided.  Do  you  know,  mother,  if 
I  were  a  man,  I  should  have  been  an  architect 
myself. " 

"But  you  're  not  a  man,  I/ucy  ;  and  I  don't 
like  the  familiar  way  in  which  you  are  speaking 
of  a  perfect  stranger." 

"  But,  Mother,  Frank  is  n't  a  stranger.  I  've 
known  him  all  my  life.  He  used  to  be  ever  so 
good  to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  was  always 
fond  of  Frank." 

"That  was  when  he  was  a  boy,  I^ucy.  You 
don't  know  anything  about  him  since  he  has 
grown  up.  We  don't  any  of  us  know  how  he 
has  spent  his  time  in  all  these  years. ' ' 

*  *  Oh  !  but  I  know.  He  has  been  studying  like 
a  tiger  ;  he  told  me  so  himself.  And  now  he  is 
prepared  to  build  theatres,  and  cathedrals,  and — 
and  houses,  and  make  a  great  name  for  himself. ' ' 

"  He  's  got  a  pretty  poor  one  to  start  with," 
cried  Harriet,  with  asperity. 

"Theatres  and  cathedrals,"  she  reflected,  as 
Lucy  left  the  room,  scarcely  heeding  her  mother's 
last  remark ;  *  *  theatres  and  cathedrals,  indeed  ! 


38  Pratt  Portraits. 

Just  what  I  should  have  expected  of  him  !  I 
should  n't  be  at  all  surprised  if  he  had  turned 
Romanist.  I^ike  as  not  he  was  hand  in  glove 
with  all  the  play-actors  in  Europe. ' ' 

This  highly  colored  view  of  the  young  man's 
probable  career  was  due  partly  to  her  profound 
disapproval  of  all  his  antecedents,  and  partly  to 
his  ' '  theatrical ' '  appearance.  None  of  the  Dun- 
bridge  young  men  wore  velvet  jackets  and 
broad-brimmed  hats,  nor  did  they  stand  bare- 
headed while  they  talked  to  a  little  chit  like  L,ucy. 
Much  as  ever  if  they  showed  Old  L,ady  Pratt  her- 
self such  deference.  To  say  nothing  of  his  hair, 
cropped  as  close  as  a  jail-bird's  !  A  horrible  sus- 
picion crossed  Harriet's  mind.  Could  he  have 
been  in  jail  ? 

It  was  easy  to  believe  anything,  however 
bad,  of  a  son  of  Frank  Knderby.  Had  not  the 
father  drunk  himself  into  the  grave,  lingering  by 
the  way,  however,  to  drink  up  a  decent  fortune  ? 
Had  not  his  wife  been  an  inefficient,  slatternly 
woman,  without  backbone  enough  to  keep  her 
children  out  of  rags  ?  What  could  one  expect  of 
the  son  of  such  people  ?  The  other  children  had 
all  died.  It  was  more  than  likely  that  the  inher- 
ited vices  of  the  whole  family  had  centred  in 
this  boy.  And  what  was  he,  after  all,  but  a 
charity  boy,  supported,  ever  since  his  parents' 
death,  by  a  rich  stranger?  A  self-respecting 
young  fellow  would  have  gone  into  a  store,  and 
worked  his  way  up.  But  that  was  not  a  fine 


Harriet.  39 

enough  career  for  Frank  Enderby's  son.  He 
must  needs  be  '  *  educated ' '  for  an  architect,  and 
fritter  away  years  of  his  life  in  Europe,  living  the 
while  on  charity.  An  architect,  indeed  !  Nothing 
but  a  new  fangled  name  for  builder.  Had  not 
her  own  father  built  half  the  houses  in  Dunbridge  ? 
Good  enough  houses  for  anybody  to  live  in.  The 
stately  roof  over  her  own  head  was  a  lasting 
monument  to  Anson  Pratt' s  skill  and  ability. 
Anson  Pratt 's  education  had  consisted  in  several 
years  of  hard  work  and  privation,  as  a  'prentice 
boy.  And  here  was  this  young  upstart  requiring 
all  Europe  to  his  teacher  !  It  was  just  the  sort  of 
thing  that  Harriet  had  no  patience  with,  and  she 
resolved  then  and  there  that  this  would-be  builder 
of  Catholic  cathedrals  should  have  no  countenance 
from  her  family. 

But  Harriet  Spencer  was  reckoning  without 
"  little  Lucy,"  as  she  might  have  known  at  first 
sight  of  Lucy's  preoccupied  face  at  dinner,  and 
"  little  Lucy, "  up  to  this  time,  was  practically  an 
unknown  factor  even  to  her  mother. 

One  of  Old  Lady  Pratt 's  many  wise  sayings  was, 
"There  's  nothin'  more  likely  to  come  to  pass 
than  what  you  ain't  lookin'  for. ' '  Holding  which 
view,  she  should  have  been  proof  against  sur- 
prise. 

Now  it  surely  would  have  been  difficult  to 
imagine  anything  more  in  accordance  with  this 
philosophy  than  Lucy's  sudden  elevation  to  incon- 
venient prominence  in  the  family  councils.  And 


40  Pratt  Portraits. 

yet  so  inconsistent  is  even  the  wisest  philosopher 
that  when  Harriet,  a  few  weeks  later,  unfolded 
to  her  mother  this  new  and  growing  perplexity, 
Old  L,ady  Pratt  so  far  forgot  herself  as  to  lay  down 
her  knitting,  take  off  her  steel-bowed  spectacles, 
and  exclaim  :  "  Well,  I  never  !  That  beats  me, 
I  declare  for  't !  " 

They  were  in  Old  Lady  Pratt' s  sunny  sitting- 
room,  with  the  pretty  green  three-ply  carpet  on 
the  floor,  and  the  canary  bird  singing  lustily 
above  the  plants  in  the  window.  Deaf  Aunt 
Betsy  was  sitting  by,  nodding  her  head  over  her 
worsted-work,  but  she  was  no  interruption  to 
confidences.  If  she  marked  the  agitation  which 
caused  her  mother  to  take  off  her  spectacles,  she 
gave  no  sign.  Betsy  rarely  knew  the  preliminary 
intricacies  of  the  family  affairs.  She  was  thought 
to  have  had  her  share  of  the  excitement  if  she 
received  sufficient  warning  to  enable  her  to  get  a 
sofa  cushion  worked  in  time  for  the  wedding. 
So,  when  she  observed  her  mother's  withered  fin- 
gers tightly  holding  the  bows  of  the  shining  spec- 
tacles— careful  even  in  her  excitement  that  the 
glasses  should  not  get  blurred — Betsy  merely  took 
a  critical  survey  of  her  worsteds,  and  choosing  a 
rich  green,  proceeded  to  fill  in  one  of  her  "  heart 
patterns  "  with  it,  rejoicing  in  the  fine  contrast  it 
offered  to  its  brilliant  crimson  neighbor. 

"And  you  feel  sure,  Harriet,  that  it  ain't  jest  a 
passing  fancy?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  it  's  more  'n  that,  Mother.  I/ucy 
has  n't  been  the  same  girl  since  I  took  her  to  task 


Harriet.  41 

about  it.  She  used  to  be  the  evenest  of  all  my 
children,  and  now  she  's  either  moping  about 
from  morning  till  night,  or  else  she 's  as  high-fly- 
ing as  a  long-tail  kite.  I  thought  first  myself 
that  she  'd  see  the  sense  of  what  I  said  to  her,  and 
I  did  n't  believe  she  'd  mind  breakin'  with  him 
after  such  a  short  acquaintance.  That 's  why  I 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  say  anything  to  you 
about  it.  I  knew  just  how  you  'd  feel  about 
Frank  Knderby's  son,  and  how  you  'd  hate " 

"  Fudge,  Harriet !  'T  ain't  Frank  Bnderby  I 
object  to.  Frank  would  ha'  come  out  straight 
enough  if  he  'd  had  any  kind  of  a  wife.  It 's 
Frank's  wife  I  never  could  abide — a  weak,  shift- 
less, wishy-washy  woman  !  It  always  did  rile  me 
jest  to  look  at  Sally  Bnderby  ;  and  I  must  say 
rt  would  put  me  out  more  'n  most  anything  I  can 
think  of  to  have  any  of  my  own  kith  and  kin  on 
more  'n  speakin'  terms  with  a  child  of  hers." 

"  But,  Mother,  Frank  Knderby  was  a  drunk- 
ard, ' '  Harriet  remonstrated. 

"  I  don't  care  'f  he  was.  Any  man  with  a 
spark  of  sperit  would  have  gone  to  the  dogs 
with  such  a  wife  as  that. ' ' 

Harriet  gave  a  little  gasp  of  consternation. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  when  she  had  recovered 
herself  sufficiently  to  speak,  '  *  I  never  thought  I 
should  live  to  hear  you  stand  up  for  a  drunk- 
ard!" 

The  old  lady  gave  her  a  shrewd  look,  and  a 
gleam  of  humor  came  into  the  bright  old  eyes — 
Harriet  did  take  things  so  seriously. 


42  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  You  '11  have  to  hear  a  good  many  surprising 
things  before  you  're  as  old  as  I  be,"  she  answer- 
ed, tranquilly  resuming  her  spectacles  and  her 
knitting-work. 

The  canary,  as  though  startled  by  his  old 
friend's  heresy,  had  fallen  into  a  sudden  silence. 
For  a  little  while  the  click  of  the  knitting-needles 
and  Betsy's  soft  woolly  manipulations  were  the 
only  sounds  audible. 

Then  Old  I,ady  Pratt  said  :  "  How  would  it  do 
to  send  I/ucy  away  on  a  visit  ?  May  be  Jane 
could  have  her  at  her  house  for  a  spell." 

Jane  was  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Pratt  who 
had  married  somewhat  ' '  beneath  her. ' '  She  lived 
in  a  smoky  manufacturing  town  about  ten  miles 
distant  from  the  genteel  suburb  where  the  Pratts 
"  resided."  Her  husband  was  an  optician  in  a 
small  way,  who  had  not  made  a  success  of  life, 
and  one  would  have  supposed  that  there  was  not 
much  in  the  nature  of  festivity  to  be  enjoyed  in 
Jane's  stuffy  little  house.  But  there  was  a  theory 
in  the  Pratt  family  that  a  visit  must  necessarily 
be  considered  as  an  indulgence,  and  Harriet  an- 
swered, with  decision  : 

"No,  Mother,  I  Ve  no  idea  of  humorin'  her; 
she  don't  deserve  it.  And  besides,"  she  added, 
"it  isn't  likely  'twould  do  any  good.  You 
know  it  was  just  what  you  tried  with  Jane 
herself,  and  after  all  she  married  Henry  Bennett 
before  the  year  was  out. ' ' 

4 'We '11  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,"  said  Old 


Harriet.  43 

Lady  Pratt,  rather  sharply.  She  had  been  "  dis- 
app'inted  "  in  Jane's  marriage,  but  she  did  not 
propose  to  cry  over  spilt  milk. 

little  l,ucy,  meanwhile,  was  having  a  hard 
time.  Her  mother's  disapproval  was  no  light 
affliction,  living,  as  she  did,  alone  with  her  in 
that  big  house,  with  nobody  else  to  speak  to. 
Harriet  had  never  been  a  demonstrative  mother. 
She  had  a  certain  mannei  under  which  she  con- 
cealed her  affection  for  her  children  as  carefully 
as  she  concealed  her  abundant  gray  hair  beneath 
a  false  front.  Overt  tenderness  was  not  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  nor  would  it  have  accorded 
well  with  Harriet's  self-contained  temperament. 
But  though  Lucy  missed  no  accustomed  warmth, 
she  felt  an  unaccustomed  chill,  and  it  was  hard 
to  bear ;  the  more  so,  as  she  had  gained  little  in 
the  way  of  compensation.  She  "  liked"  Frank 
Bnderby,  and  she  modestly  "hoped'*  that  he 
liked  her.  Even  in  her  inmost  thoughts  I^ucy 
never  used  a  warmer  word.  Yes,  she  liked  him, 
and  he  was  very  "  nice  "  to  her ;  and  how  could 
she  break  with  him  as  her  mother  wished  her 
to  do?  She  never  thought  of  disobeying  her 
mother  ;  that  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  But, 
oh  !  it  was  very  hard. 

"  I  might  as  well  be  a  nun,  and  never  go  any- 
where," she  had  said,  in  a  melancholy  little 
voice,  when  her  mother  had  carefully  laid  down 
the  law  as  to  her  conduct. 

A  new  look  of  displeasure  had  appeared  in 


44  Pratt  Portraits. 

Harriet's  severe  face,  but  she  said  nothing.  She 
only  made  a  mental  note  of  the  little  speech  as 
being  "  another  foreign  notion." 

To-day,  while  her  mother  was  "  gone  to  Grand- 
ma's," Lucy  stood  at  a  front  window,  gazing 
idly  across  the  snow-covered  lawn  to  the  street, 
as  young  girls  will  gaze  when  the  house  seems 
empty,  and  the  outside  world  is  full  of  possi- 
bilities. She  told  herself  she  was  hoping  that 
Annie  Owen  might  come  to  see  her. 

Suddenly  she  beheld  her  pet  kitten,  a  frisky 
little  bunch  of  gray  fur,  scurrying  across  the 
snow  toward  the  street,  toward  all  the  dangers 
that  menace  little  kittens  in  this  wicked  world. 
Quick  as  thought,  Lucy  had  snatched  her  Red 
Riding-hood  cape,  that  was  hanging  on  the  hat- 
tree,  and  was  running  swiftly  toward  the  "  ever- 
green corner"  in  pursuit.  She  found  kitty 
examining  with  much  interest  the  shady  recesses 
beneath  a  dark  hemlock,  whose  branches  swept 
the  ground.  Puss  paid  no  heed  to  her  mistress* 
voice.  She  was  stepping  daintily  about  in  the 
snow,  lifting  her  soft  little  paws  very  high,  and 
evincing  great  surprise  when  her  waving  tail 
brought  a  sudden  shower  of  white  powder  down 
upon  her  from  the  low-hanging  needles. 

"  Here,  kitty,  kitty  !  Come,  puss,  come  1 " 
I/ucy  called,  in  persuasive  tones.  But  pussy  did 
not  move  an  eyelid  in  response. 

Now  Lucy,  whose  very  decided  will  was 
trained  to  submission  in  several  legitimate  direc- 


I'Y 


HARRIET 


-V-y   3  ?  T  *   ^n»  o    ^    <  * 
<        •>   *       *J    ,    >,-•  -o,vS  /•'.,-.., 


Harriet.  45 

tions,  had  no  mind  to  be  thwarted  by  her  own 
kitten.  She  drew  her  little  red  cape  tightly 
about  her,  and  diving  in  among  the  wet  prickly 
branches,  seized  Miss  Pussy  Cat  by  the  back  of 
her  neck,  and  pulled  her  out.  ' '  Bad  pussy, ' '  she 
said,  in  a  caressing  tone,  holding  the  warm  little 
creature  up  against  her  cheek.  The  red  cape  and 
the  dark  hair  were  well  powdered  with  snow,  but 
I/ucy  did  not  move  away  directly.  It  felt  warm 
and  sheltered  in  there  among  the  tall  dark  hem- 
locks, with  a  blue  sky  for  a  roof.  She  stood, 
lost  in  a  sudden  girlish  reverie,  softly  stroking 
the  kitten,  which  purred  contentedly  against  her 
chin. 

"  I  wish  you  liked  me  half  as  well  as  you  do 
that  kitten,  lyucy , ' '  said  a  voice  she  knew. 

The  sidewalk  was  close  at  hand,  with  only  a 
low  stone  wall  between.  He  stood  holding  the 
branches  of  the  evergreens  apart,  and  looking  in 
upon  her  with  a  deprecating,  beseeching  face.  It 
seemed  like  a  part  of  her  reverie,  his  coming  had 
been  so  silent.  She  did  not  more  than  half 
believe  it  was  really  he.  She  looked  at  him 
incredulously  for  an  instant,  and  then,  still  gaz- 
ing into  his  ardent  eyes,  she  said :  "  Oh,  Frank, 
I  do,  Idol" 

Before  he  could  speak  or  look  an  answer,  she 
had  turned  and  fled  across  the  snow. 

But  she  could  not  flee  so  lightly  the  echo  of  her 
own  daring  words,  and  all  that  day  and  evening 
the  impulse  of  flight  was  still  strong  upon  her. 


46  Pratt  Portraits. 

At  last,  when  bedtime  came,  I,ucy  said  to  her 
mother,  "I  wish  you  would  let  me  go  to  Aunt 
Jane's  for  a  visit." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  carpet.  Her 
mother  thought  they  looked  swollen  and  red. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  Aunt  Jane's  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  get  away  from  home." 

"Why?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  mother's.  Mother 
and  daughter  were  very  much  alike  at  that 
moment. 

1 '  Why  ? ' '  Harriet  repeated. 

"It  isn't  easy  to  do  as  you  wish  me  to  at 
home,  and " 

"And  what?" 

"  I  should  like  to  think  it  over  quietly." 

There  was  no  defiance  in  the  tone.  It  seemed 
to  Harriet  as  though  she  were  listening  to  her 
own  voice.  A  peculiar  sense  of  identity  with  the 
girl  came  over  her,  and  she  did  not  resent  the 
speech.  If  I/ucy  really  did  resemble  her  in  char- 
acter there  was  nothing  to  fear.  Harriet,  with 
all  her  determination,  would  never  have  rebelled 
against  lawful  authority. 

"Go  to  bed  now,  child,"  she  said,  not  un- 
kindly ;  "  I  will  think  about  it." 

When  she  left  Lucy  at  her  Aunt  Jane's  the 
next  day,  with  no  more  enlivening  companionship 
than  that  of  her  dull  old  bachelor  cousin,  Anson 
Bennett,  Harriet  felt  some  misgivings. 

"  I  don't  know  's  it 's  just  the  place  for  her," 


Harriet.  47 

she  said  to  herself.  "If  she  wants  to  fret  and 
pine,  there  's  nothing  at  Jane's  to  hinder." 

For  the  moment  she  felt  out  of  humor  with 
herself,  and  mistrustful  of  her  own  wisdom.  But 
this  dissatisfaction  soon  gave  place  to  the  much 
less  irksome  feeling  of  annoyance  with  others. 
For  during  Lucy's  three  weeks'  absence,  her 
mother  heard  so  much  of  young  Frank  Bnderby 
that  she  got  into  a  state  of  chronic  displeasure 
against  the  world  in  general.  He  seemed  to 
have  bewitched  the  neighborhood. 

"Just  like  his  father,"  she  would  say  to  her- 
self, rocking  so  fiercely  that  she  could  not  sew. 
"  Frank  Bnderby  always  had  a  taking  way  with 
him.  These  good-for-nothing  fellows  are  very 
apt  to." 

She  felt  more  determined  than  ever  in  her 
opposition  to  him.  But  still  his  praises  resounded. 
He  was  going  to  be  a  great  architect.  He  had 
set  up  an  office  of  his  own  in  the  city.  He  was 
already  paying  off  the  debt  to  his  rich  benefactor. 
It  was  rumored  that  he  was  to  have  the  building 
of  the  new  Episcopal  church  in  Dunbridge,  and 
that  there  were  to  be  stained-glass  windows  in  it, 
and  two  pulpits.  As  time  went  on  Harriet  began 
to  feel  that  the  whole  community  was  in  league 
against  her,  and  she  summoned  all  her  will 
and  diplomacy  to  avert  the  crisis  which  she 
feared. 

One  day  Old  Lady  Pratt  was  passing  the  after- 
noon with  her  daughter.  The  two  women  had 


48  Pratt  Portraits. 

established  themselves  comfortably  over  the  iron 
register,  whence  issued  a  mild,  well-regulated 
heat,  very  pleasing  to  a  well-regulated  mind. 
They  talked  amicably  of  this  and  that,  while 
their  knitting-needles  clicked  accompaniment, 
and  Harriet  had  begun  to  feel  more  at  one  with 
herself  and  with  the  world  at  large  than  had 
been  the  case  for  some  time  past.  Suddenly,  as 
out  of  a  clear  sky,  the  old  lady  remarked : 

"  'T  ain't  often  that  you  see  a  handsomer  house 
than  this,  Harriet." 

Now  the  superiority  of  the  Spencer  house  over 
others  of  the  neighborhood  was  an  established 
fact,  and  one  that  hardly  called  for  comment  at 
this  late  day.  Harriet  could  not  but  wonder  at 
the  turn  her  mother's  thoughts  had  taken.  She 
soon  caught  their  drift,  however. 

"I  must  say,"  the  latter  continued,  "that  I 
was  quite  pleased  to  hear  that  young  Bnderby 
has  been  heard  to  say  that  '  Old  Anson  Pratt' s 
houses'  were  a  long  sight  ahead  of  the  new 
'  French-roof  monstrosities.'  He  called  'em  mon- 
strosities, Harriet,"  she  repeated,  with  a  quiet 
chuckle. 

Harriet's  face  suddenly  hardened.  "  I  always 
thought  the  French-roof  houses  very  pretty 
myself,"  said  she. 

Her  mother  glanced  at  her  quickly. 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  so  sot  agin  that  boy  as  you 
was,  Harriet.  Far  's  I  can  make  out,  he  seems 
to  be  a  likely  enough  young  fellow." 


Harriet.  49 

"likely  enough  to  go  to  the  bad,"  Harriet 
retorted,  sharply. 

"  He  ain't  showed  no  signs  of  it  yet,"  the  old 
lady  rejoined,  with  answering  spirit.  "  He  'pears 
to  be  doin'  uncommon  well.  Dr.  Baxter  says 
he  's  makin'  his  mark  a'ready." 

"  He  has  n't  stopped  being  the  son  of  his 
father  and  mother,  far  's  I  know." 

"  That 's  true  enough,  and  I  never  could  abide 
Sally  Knderby.  But  then,  folks  don't  always  take 
after  their  fathers  and  mothers." 

"  I  don't  know  who  else  they  take  after,"  cried 
Harriet,  with  as  near  an  approach  to  irritability 
as  she  ever  permitted  herself.  "  Anyway,  my 
mind  's  made  up  about  I,ucy.  She  sha'  n't  have 
anything  to  do  with  Frank  Knderby,  not  if  I 
have  to  lock  her  up" 

Old  I^ady  Pratt  eyed  her  daughter  an  instant. 
It  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions  on  which  she  was 
displeased  with  her. 

"  Speakin'  of  takin'  after  your  parents,"  she 
said,  dryly,  "you  ain't  one  mite  like  your  father." 

The  reproof  was  administered,  and  the  culprit 
knew  it. 

Opposition  is  a  great  stiffener.  From  that  time 
forward  Harriet  Spencer's  determination  had 
turned  to  obstinacy. 

When  I^ucy  came  home  a  few  days  later,  her 
mother,  after  a  searching  glance  at  her  pale  face, 
gave  her  a  rather  frosty  greeting.  The  girl  wore 
a  deep  red  rose  in  her  dress. 


50  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  rose?"  Harriet 
asked  presently,  for  hot-house  flowers  did  not 
bloom  at  Jane's. 

"  Frank  left  it  for  me  yesterday." 

"  Did  he  come  'way  over  to  Westville  on  pur- 
pose to  see  you  ? ' ' 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  How  did  he  find  out  you  were  at  Jane's?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Did  n't  you  ask  him?" 

"I  did  n't  see  him." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  mean." 

The  inquisitor's  face  relaxed. 

"Did  Jane  see  him?" 

"Yes  'm." 

"  What  did  she  say  to  him  ?  " 

* '  I  don' t  know.  She  said  she  made  it  all  right. ' ' 

"Jane  had  better  mind  her  own  business," 
Harriet  muttered. 

She  was  suspicious  of  her  sister's  methods. 
Jane's  had  never  been  a  well-regulated  mind. 
But  the  rose  was  suffered  to  remain  where  it  was. 
lyucy  had  certainly  behaved  very  well,  exactly  as 
Harriet  herself  would  have  done  in  her  place. 

When  she  said  good-night,  Lucy  still  looked 
pale  and  tired  ;  but  there  was  a  ' '  grown-up, ' '  ex- 
perienced look  in  her  face  which  did  not  escape 
her  mother. 

Harriet  was  again  struck  with  that  curious 
sense  of  identity  with  her  which  had  come  over 


Harriet.  5 1 

her  once  before.  ' '  I  guess  it 's  that  red  rose, ' '  she 
said  to  herself,  with  a  dreary  feeling  at  her  heart. 
Harriet's  devotions  that  evening  were  serious 
and  absorbing.  Long  after  the  house  was  quiet 
she  still  knelt  beside  her  bed,  her  head  resting  in 
her  hands.  Yet  meek  as  was  the  attitude,  her 
face,  when  she  lifted  it,  was  harder  than  before ; 
the  set  look  seemed  fixed  there.  She  put  out  her 
light  and  got  into  bed,  but  she  could  not  compose 
herself  to  sleep.  Hour  after  hour  she  lay  with  her 
eyes  wide  open,  staring  into  the  darkness.  She 
had  ceased  to  think ;  she  had  ceased  to  resolve. 
She  was  trying,  with  a  dull,  persistent  effort,  not 
to  see  that  red  rose  and  the  pale  face  above  it,  so 
like  her  own.  The  tall  clock  in  the  dining-room 
struck  eleven  and  twelve.  Then  the  minutes 
dragged  so  slowly  that  she  hoped  she  had  been 
asleep.  But  no ;  the  next  stroke  that  echoed 
through  the  empty  halls  was  one.  At  two  o'clock 
something  seemed  to  give  way  within  her.  She 
got  up  and  struck  a  light,  and  having  put  on  her 
heavy  flannel  double-gown  and  slippers,  she 
stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  She  glanced  fur- 
tively at  the  old  mahogany  bureau  between  the 
front  windows,  and  then,  candle  in  hand,  she 
passed  out  into  the  warm  hall  and  down  the 
stairs.  As  the  old  timbers  creaked  beneath  her 
feet  she  paused,  and  cast  a  guilty  look  over  her 
shoulder.  "  If  this  is  n't  perfectly  ridiculous !  " 
she  said  to  herself,  with  strong  disapproval.  But 
she  pursued  her  way  still  more  cautiously. 


52  Pratt  Portraits. 

Arrived  below  she  went  about  from  room  to 
room  feeling  the  window  fastenings.  Yet  she 
had  secured  them  all  herself,  and  Harriet  Spencer 
was  the  last  woman  to  doubt  her  own  thorough- 
ness. The  long  parlor  was  dim  and  shadowy  in 
the  flickering  candle-light,  and  her  own  figure 
seen  in  the  pier-glass  as  she  came  down  the  room 
had  a  ghostly  look.  She  turned  her  eyes  away 
from  the  glass,  and  was  glad  to  go  out  into  the 
hall. 

In  the  kitchen  she  examined  the  bread,  which 
had  been  set  to  rise.  It  was  doing  its  duty 
bravely.  The  gray  kitten,  curled  up  in  its  little 
basket  beside  the  stove,  opened  one  eye  upon  the 
intruder,  but  it  told  no  tales  of  hemlock  boughs 
and  Red  Riding-hood  capes,  nor  of  a  swift  passage 
across  the  snow,  held  close  against  a  wildly 
beating  heart. 

A  few  moments  later  Harriet  was  standing  at 
I,ucy's  bedside.  The  girl  was  fast  asleep,  but  the 
candle-light  upon  her  face  showed  it  flushed  and 
tear-stained.  In  the  mug  upon  the  washstand 
the  red  rose  drooped  its  head.  Harriet  bent  down 
and  breathed  the  delicate  perfume,  shading  the 
candle  lest  the  light  should  wake  the  sleeper. 
"I  wish  I  could  sleep  like  that,"  she  thought, 
sighing  deeply.  " 'T  is  n't  much  of  a  trouble 
that  don't  keep  you  awake  nights." 

Yet  the  touch  was  very  gentle  with  which 
she  drew  the  warm  coverlid  closer  about  the 
child. 


Harriet.  53 

Harriet  was  not  herself  to-night.  For  once  in 
her  life  she  had  slipped  from  her  own  guidance. 
Something  from  without  seemed  to  direct  her 
movements ;  or  was  it  something  deep,  deep 
within?  As  she  closed  her  chamber  door  and 
put  the  candle  upon  the  bureau,  she  made  one 
last,  half-hearted  effort  to  break  the  spell  which 
was  upon  her,  but  the  effort  was  vain.  A  look  of 
unwonted  emotion  transformed  her  handsome 
features,  and,  in  sudden  defiance  of  her  own  will, 
she  pulled  open  a  certain  bureau  drawer,  and  reach- 
ing far  back  under  the  cool  linen,  drew  forth  an 
old  shell  box.  Her  hands  trembled  a  little  as  she 
lifted  the  lid.  The  subtle  odor  which  clings 
about  old  letters  floated  up.  She  took  them  out 
and  opened  them,  one  after  the  other,  straining 
her  eyes  to  read  them  in  the  uncertain  candle- 
light. Curiously  enough,  she  did  not  think  of 
putting  on  her  glasses.  The  young  eyes  for 
which  those  lines  were  written  had  required  no 
such  aids.  Bach  letter  began  :  "  My  beloved 
Harriet,"  and  each  one  was  signed:  "Your 
faithful  James. ' '  Nor  did  they  differ  very  greatly 
in  their  contents,  these  three  or  four  yellow  letters 
with  the  ink  fading  out.  She  read  them  slowly 
and  with  difficulty,  a  deep  crimson  coming  into 
her  cheeks,  a  strange  softness  into  her  eyes. 

Last  of  all,  she  took  up  a  piece  of  silk  tissue- 
paper  lying  folded  together  in  the  bottom  of  the 
box.  How  long  it  was  since  she  had  looked  at 
it !  The  creases  were  worn  quite  through.  Lying 


54  Pratt  Portraits. 

within, — yes,  there  it  was,  a  faded  rose,  no  longer 
red.  The  dull  brownish  petals  would  have 
crumbled  had  her  touch  been  less  tender.  For  a 
long,  long  time  she  looked  at  it  before  laying  it 
carefully  back  into  the  box  ;  then,  with  a  sudden, 
passionate  movement,  she  bowed  her  gray  head 
upon  the  open  letters,  and  wept — wept  not  like  an 
old  woman,  but  like  a  young  girl  in  an  abandon- 
ment of  grief. 

The  candle  burnt  lower  and  lower,  while  Har- 
riet Spencer  sat  and  wept ;  the  old  clock  struck 
three,  and  the  faint  yet  pervasive  odor  of  the 
yellowing  paper  crept  slowly  through  the  quiet 
chamber.  It  was  gray  dawn  before  the  weary 
watcher  sank  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

But  that  short  sleep  bridged  the  way  back  to 
real  life.  There  was  no  trace  of  weariness  in  the 
brisk  step  with  which  Harriet  went  about  the 
house  the  next  morning.  Her  voice,  too,  was 
quite  steady  and  matter-of-fact  as  she  said  to 
I^ucy:  "How  would  you  like  to  have  me  send 
and  ask  Frank  Knderby  to  come  in  to  supper 
to-night,  seeing  he  was  'so  polite  as  to  go  'way 
over  to  Jane's  to  wait  on  you.  We  are  going  to 
have  waffles,"  she  tried  to  add,  but  there  were 
close  clinging  arms  about  her  neck  and  a  soft  cheek 
was  pressed  against  her  own  for  answer.  Such 
behavior  did  not  seem  to  Harriet  quite  decorous. 
She  actually  blushed,  as  she  put  the  girl  gently 
from  her,  saying  :  "There,  there,  L,ucy  !  Don't 
take  on  about  it." 


Harriet.  55 

Ivittle  I,ucy  did  not  mark  the  strangely  tired 
look  in  her  mother's  eyes.  A  happy  wonder 
filled  her  heart,  and  shut  out  all  besides. 

At  the  wedding,  a  year  or  two  after  that,  some 
one  remarked,  * '  How  well-preserved  Harriet 
Spencer  is  \  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  widow  Perkins,  with  a  self- 
conscious  sigh;  "that  comes  of  keeping  your 
feelings  under." 


III. 
A  DOMESTIC  CRISIS. 

ANSON  PRATT  the  younger  was  some- 
thing of  an  old  Betty.     His  mother  had 
made  the  discovery  when  he  was  still 
in  petticoats,  and  she  had  tried  by  many 
ingenious  devices  to  change  his  nature.     He  was 
only  her  second  child,  and  she,  being  then  young 
and  inexperienced,   had    not   yet    learned    that 
natures  are  not  to  be  changed.     Years,   how- 
ever, and  an  instructive  family  of  children  taught 
her  wisdom.     She  brought  her  son  up  in  the 
paths    of  godliness    and    temperance ;    she    in- 
culcated in  him  the    most  sterling  principles  ; 
she  taught  him  self-reliance  and  integrity.     But 
an  old  Betty  he  remained  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter. 

This  was  the  more  unfortunate  since  he  had 
married  a  woman  who  would  have  seemed  espe- 
cially designed  by  Providence  to  be  a  trial  to  an 
old  Betty  in  any  capacity,  and  pre-eminently  so 
in  the  capacity  of  helpmeet.  Yet  there  were  com- 
pensations in  his  lot,  which  Anson  Pratt  would 
have  been  the  last  man  to  underrate. 
56 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  57 

Bmmeline  Joy,  though,  not  possessed  of  beauty, 
was  a  woman  of  a  good  deal  of  personal  fascina- 
tion. She  had  a  piquant  face  and  great  vivacity. 
She  had  also  her  seasons  of  dreaminess — of  re- 
moteness from  every-day  concerns.  She  passed  for 
an  accomplished  woman  in  the  good  old  simple 
days  when  she  was  young,  before  the  world  grew 
critical  and  fault-finding,  when  people  were  still 
easily  pleased.  She  could  sing,  and  play  the 
piano — a  queer  little  thin-voiced  instrument,  hav- 
ing the  maker's  name  done  in  mother-of-pearl, 
with  floral  ornamentations,  on  the  lid.  She  could 
paint  in  water-colors,  to  the  admiration  of  all  be- 
holders. She  had  a  delightful  talent  for  acting, 
and  she  so  far  succeeded  in  overcoming  the  preju- 
dices of  the  Puritan  community  into  which  she 
had  married,  as  to  introduce  private  theatricals 
into  staid  old  Dunbridge  itself.  She  did  none  of 
these  things  well,  judged  by  modern  standards, 
unless  it  was  perhaps  the  acting,  in  which  she 
really  excelled,  by  virtue  of  a  remarkable  power 
of  mimicry  and  a  spontaneity  as  refreshing  as  it 
was  unusual.  In  music  and  painting  she  had  no 
more  technical  facility  than  many  of  her  contem- 
poraries. But  there  was  a  touch  of  genius  in  all 
that  she  did,  which  made  it  go  straight  to  people's 
hearts.  Her  painted  flowers  may  have  been  a 
trifle  out  of  drawing,  but  somehow  she  seemed  to 
have  got  their  fragrance  into  her  pictures.  The 
dear,  old-fashioned  tunes  she  played  and  sang 
were  very  primitive,  but  her  touch  made  them 


58  Pratt  Portraits. 

beautiful.  And  the  same  spark  of  genius  that 
prevailed  in  what  she  did,  also  made  her  what 
she  was,  a  woman  of  singular  charm  and  lova- 
bleness.  It  was  no  wonder  that  Anson  Pratt  fell 
in  love  with  her,  in  spite  of  her  well  known  short- 
comings ;  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  was  quite  as 
much  in  love  with  her  as  ever,  after  having  suf- 
fered from  those  shortcomings  for  seven  years. 

Kmmeline's  manifold  faults  might  all  be  sum- 
med up  in  a  word — she  was  the  very  worst  house- 
keeper imaginable.  Anson  Pratt,  old  Betty  as  he 
was,  was  forced  to  live  in  the  midst  of  disorder 
and  dust ;  he  had  to  see  his  two  boys,  bright  lit- 
tle fellows  with  a  capacity  for  getting  into  trouble, 
going  about  in  rags  and  tatters.  He  himself  had 
more  than  once  experienced  the  humiliation  of 
substituting  a  pin  for  a  button  ;  he  had  sometimes 
walked  the  streets  with  the  degrading  conscious- 
ness of  a  hole  in  his  socks.  This  would  have 
been  hard  enough  for  any  man  to  bear.  For  an 
old  Betty  it  was  wellnigh  intolerable.  Further- 
more, although  he  was  not  an  epicure,  Anson 
liked  his  meals  well  cooked  and  well  served,  and 
this  reasonable  wish  was  rarely  gratified.  Slat- 
ternly, inefficient  servants  succeeded  one  another 
in  the  kitchen,  and  unpalatable  viands  appeared 
as  a  result  upon  the  table.  Kmmeline  never 
seemed  to  notice  what  she  ate.  She  had  a  good, 
healthy  appetite  and  a  preoccupied  mind,  and  she 
could  not  understand  any  one's  being  fastidious 
about  his  food. 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  59 

To  do  Anson  justice,  it  was  some  time  before 
lie  complained.  During  the  early  part  of  his 
married  life  the  muddiest  coffee  had  the  flavor  of 
nectar  when  his  wife's  hands  poured  it  out ;  the 
most  unpalatable  food  of  her  serving  seemed 
ambrosial.  And  when,  after  many  months,  he 
returned  to  a  normal  state  of  mind,  and  ventured 
upon  a  mild  protest,  Kmmeline  hardly  took  it  in 
earnest.  In  fact,  Emmeline  was  the  only  person 
who  knew  Anson  Pratt  intimately,  who  had  not 
discovered  that  he  was  an  old  Betty. 

Mrs.  Anson' s  general  inefficiency  was  the  more 
aggravating,  because  it  existed  side  by  side  with 
unusual  capacity.  When,  at  not  very  rare  inter- 
vals, the  maid-of-all-work  took  French  leave, 
Emmeline  invariably  rose  to  the  occasion.  Then 
it  was  that  Anson  was  well  fed  and  well  cared 
for.  Appetizing  dishes  were  served  in  the  most 
appetizing  manner.  The  touch  of  genius  which 
Emmeline  possessed,  the  quick  perception  and  the 
light  hand,  made  themselves  felt  in  the  homeliest 
tasks  on  which  she  really  put  her  mind.  The 
difficulty  usually  was  that  she  did  not  put  her 
mind  on  these  things.  She  had  too  many  bad 
habits,  which  interfered  with  that  system  so 
essential  in  the  government  of  a  household.  She 
would  read  Scott  or  Byron  until  far  into  the 
night,  and  wake  in  the  morning  dazed  and 
sleepy.  Or  again,  she  would  rise  with  the  sun 
and  take  her  boys  for  a  long  walk,  out  into  the 
dewy  fields,  to  listen  to  the  meadow  thrush, 


60  Pratt  Portraits. 

instead  of  busying  herself  with  housewifely 
duties.  She  had  been  known  to  practise  an 
entire  morning  on  a  new  piano  piece,  to  spend 
days  in  fashioning  a  velvet  tunic  for  Robbie,  or 
an  embroidered  skirt  for  little  Aleck,  while  the 
boys,  happily  unconscious,  shocked  the  neigh- 
borhood in  their  well  ventilated  pinafores  and 
tattered  hats. 

The  two  boys  were  very  different,  even  at  the 
age  of  five  and  three,  respectively.  Robbie,  the 
elder,  was  the  greater  rogue  of  the  two,  the  one 
who  took  the  initiative  in  every  scheme  of  mis- 
chief, leading  the  small  boys  of  the  neighborhood, 
as  well  as  his  matter-of-fact  little  brother,  into 
scrapes  innumerable.  Yet  when  Kmmeline 
played  the  piano,  or  sang  an  old  ballad,  the  little 
figure  that  stole  in  on  tiptoe  and  curled  itself  up 
in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  that  sat  there  motionless 
as  long  as  the  music  lasted,  was  Robbie's,  and 
Robbie's  were  the  little  arms  that  were  most 
often  flung  about  her  neck  in  a  burst  of  pas- 
sionate affection,  or  an  equally  passionate  burst 
of  penitence.  It  was  the  little  Robbie  who  was 
improvident  with  his  playthings,  who  emptied 
his  entire  store  of  pennies  for  the  roughest  tramp 
who  came  their  way.  It  was  little  Robbie  who 
gave  his  mother  more  trouble  and  more  delight 
than  a  dozen  little  Alecks  could  have  done. 

Aleck,  on  the  other  hand,  was  his  father's  boy, 
the  boy  for  whom  Anson  already  prophesied 
success  in  life,  and  considering  that  the  two  were 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  61 

little  Pratts,  brought  up  in  Dunbridge,  this 
prophecy  was  likely  enough  to  come  true.  The 
old  New  England  community  of  half  a  century 
ago  knew  how  to  prize  a  level  head  and  a  well- 
governed  mind.  Genius  and  impetuosity  were 
rather  thrown  away  upon  our  forebears.  A  boy 
who  drew  pictures  on  his  slate  instead  of  doing 
his  sums,  who  forgot  his  history  dates  in  enthu- 
siasm over  the  history  heroes,  did  not,  in  old 
times,  arouse  the  tender  and  peculiar  interest 
of  his  teachers.  Nobody  but  his  mother  looked 
upon  Robbie  as  anything  more  than  a  bright  but 
troublesome  little  lad,  with  ears  in  crying  need 
of  being  boxed. 

Meanwhile,  Kmmeline  lived  an  abstracted  sort 
of  life,  throwing  herself  ardently  into  whatever 
happened  to  appeal  to  her  for  the  moment,  ador- 
ing her  husband  and  her  little  boys,  and  taking 
the  worst  possible  care  of  them.  She  led  her 
own  life  of  the  imagination  and  the  emotions, 
curiously  oblivious  of  the  clouds  that  were  gath- 
ering on  the  domestic  horizon.  And  Anson, 
tired  of  protesting,  tired  of  "putting  up"  with 
things,  tired  of  living  "out  at  elbows,"  was 
gradually  forming  a  great  resolve. 

For  several  weeks  past,  Kmmeline  had  been 
given  over,  heart  and  soul,  to  the  preparations 
for  a  "parlor  comedy,"  to  be  performed  in  aid 
of  a  fund  for  buying  a  new  church  organ.  She 
had  not  only  to  play  the  title-r61e,  "  The  Artless 
Celestina,"  but  she  was  stage-manager  as  well 


62  Pratt  Portraits. 

This  latter  undertaking  was  the  more  arduous 
of  the  two,  because  of  the  uncompromising  stiff- 
ness of  the  material  she  had  to  work  with.  The 
women  of  her  little  troupe,  sensible  wives  and 
daughters  of  Dunbridge  citizens,  women  who 
had  all  their  lives  been  engaged  in  repressing 
their  more  lively  emotions,  in  refraining  from 
indecorous  exhibitions  of  feeling,  found  it  difficult 
to  teach  their  voices  the  art  of  trembling,  their 
features  the  trick  of  looking  moved  in  an  imagi- 
nary situation.  The  estimable  youth  who  had 
assumed  the  r61e  of  insinuating  villain  could 
scarcely  be  induced  not  to  state  his  designs  and 
convey  the  subtle  cunning  of  his  machinations  in 
a  voice  with  which  he  might  have  taken  com- 
mand of  an  army.  As  to  Celestina's  lover, 
though  his  declaration  of  undying  affection 
smacked  strongly  of  the  counting-house,  his  arms 
and  legs  would  have  done  credit  to  a  Dutch 
windmill.  But  Emmeline  never  for  a  moment 
lost  heart.  She  drilled  her  unpromising  com- 
pany with  tact  and  spirit,  and  she  threw  into  her 
own  r61e  a  naturalness  and  fire  which  held  its 
own  against  all  odds.  The  play,  according  to 
Dunbridge  standards,  turned  out  a  success,  and 
the  '  *  leading  lady ' '  went  home  with  her  husband 
after  the  performance,  exhausted  but  triumphant. 
But  great  as  had  been  Emmeline' s  perplexities, 
this  period  of  excitement  and  anxiety  had  been  far 
more  severe  a  strain  upon  Anson's  nerves  than 
upon  hers.  His  house  had  been  more  at  sixes 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  63 

and  sevens  than  ever,  his  children  had  taken  on 
more  than  ever  the  semblance  of  street-ragamuf- 
fins, and  as  for  his  food,  he  was  left  to  the  mercy 
of  the  most  inefficient  servant  who  had  yet  dis- 
pensed indigestion  to  this  long-suffering  household. 

Yet  Anson  possessed  himself  in  patience  all 
through  the  time  of  rehearsals.  He  was  even 
magnanimous  enough  to  take  a  pride  in  his  wife's 
success.  He  was  a  little  bewildered,  indeed,  by 
the  ease  and  naturalness  with  which  she  played 
the  part  of  designing  coquette,  but  her  eagerness, 
when  she  turned  to  her  rightful  lord  for  approval, 
once  the  play  being  ended,  proved  entirely  re- 
assuring. 

The  next  day  Anson  laid  before  her  his  list  of 
grievances,  and  waited  in  the  lingering  hope  of 
better  things.  Alas  !  It  was  a  vain  hope.  Em- 
meline  took  his  fault-finding  in  the  sweetest 
spirit,  promised  to  ' ' see  to  things, ' '  and  to  ' '  speak 
to ' '  the  servant,  and  immediately  became  absorbed 
in  the  manufacture  of  a  pair  of  slippers  for  her 
husband's  birthday,  and  forgot  all  about  every- 
thing else. 

Anson  felt  deeply  injured,  as  he  certainly  had 
a  right  to  do.  He  thought  bitterly  of  his  own 
hardworking  life,  of  how  he  never  looked  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left  when  in  the  path  of  duty,  of 
the  discomforts  and  vexations  he  had  endured  for 
all  these  years,  and  his  heart  became  hard  within 
him. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  after  the  the- 


64  Pratt  Portraits. 

atricals  he  went  down  cellar  to  saw  wood,  a  favor 
ite  diversion  of  his.  He  liked  the  damp,  cold, 
clean  cellar,  and  the  sense  of  having  his  own  way 
in  his  own  province ;  he  liked  to  feel  his  hand 
close  firmly  upon  the  smooth  handle  of  the  saw,  he 
enjoyed  the  tingling  sensation  that  went  through 
the  sole  of  his  foot,  pressed  hard  against  the  log, 
as  the  saw  ground  its  way  through  the  resisting 
fibres  of  the  wood.  On  a  cold  March  evening 
like  this  the  exercise  was  particularly  agreeable. 

To-night,  however,  his  mind  was  laboring 
harder  than  his  muscles.  Yes,  he  thought  to 
himself, — sawing  wood  is  rough  work,  and  it 
makes  a  grating  sound.  But  some  difficulties 
have  to  be  sawed  through  in  just  that  hard,  un- 
compromising way.  As  he  tossed  one  stick  after 
another  onto  the  pile,  he  first  held  it  in  the  small 
circle  of  light  his  lantern  cast,  and  admired  the 
smooth,  even  cut  which  the  ugly  tool  had  made. 
And  as  he  worked,  and  as  he  pondered,  he  ex- 
perienced a  strong  desire  to  saw  through  the  diffi- 
culties of  his  daily  life,  no  matter  how  rude  and 
jarring  the  process  might  be. 

He  had  a  right  to  have  a  comfortable  home,  if 
ever  a  man  had.  It  was  a  right  that  he  fairly 
earned,  every  day  of  his  life.  Emmeline  was  very 
sweet,  and  he  loved  her  very  much,  but,  good 
heavens !  a  man  could  not  live  on  sweetness  and 
love  !  He  kept  sawing  one  log  after  another  to 
the  required  length,  and  when  he  had  had  enough 
of  it,  he  drew  himself  up,  and  took  a  long  breath. 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  65 

"  I  '11  do  it !  "  he  said  to  himself ;  "  I  swear  I  '11 
do  it." 

"  It  '11  cost  a  good  deal,"  he  continued,  as  he 
put  on  his  coat  and  hung  up  his  saw  on  its  own 
special  peg,  "but  I  can  make  it  up  somehow." 

He  went  up  stairs  into  the  kitchen,  where  he 
hung  up  his  lantern,  and  washed  his  hands  at  the 
sink.  Then,  as  he  passed  on  into  the  front  of  the 
house,  he  heard  Kmmeline's  voice,  singing  a 
lullaby  in  the  nursery.  He  paused  and  listened. 
Kmmeline's  singing  always  appealed  to  him. 
To-night  her  voice  was  wonderfully  sweet,  and  he 
liked  the  words : 

"Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  's  a  queen." 

Kmmeline  made  her  own  tunes  when  she  sang 
to  the  children.  The  melody  was  low  and  croon- 
ing, and  in  the  middle  of  it  Anson  could  hear 
little  Robbie's  voice,  saying  sleepily:  "Kiss  me 
again,  Mamma." 

Anson  leaned  against  the  balustrade. 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  's  a  queen." 

Was  father  a  nobleman,  to  care  so  much  about 
sordid  things  ?  Was  not  Kmmeline,  after  all,  a 
kind  of  queen,  not  made  for  common  cares  ? 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  's  a  queen." 

She  had  left  out  the  rest  of  the  verse  now,  and 
was  merely  murmuring  that  one  line.  For  the 
hundredth  time  Anson  Pratt' s  heart  softened,  and 


66  Pratt  Portraits. 

his  annoyances  seemed  petty  and  unreal.  He 
took  his  hand  off  the  railing,  meaning  to  go  up  to 
the  nursery,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  a  long  streak 
of  dust,  that  ran  over  his  hand,  his  wristband,  and 
his  coat-sleeve.  He  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  it 
as  only  an  old  Betty  could  do,  and  striding  into 
the  sitting-room  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  rude  sound  startled  Emmeline  out  of  her 
reverie,  and  little  Aleck  waked  up  crying. 

The  next  evening,  after  the  children  were  put 
to  bed,  Kmmeline  came  down  to  the  sitting- 
room,  looking  very  pretty  and  housewifely  in  a 
black  silk  apron,  with  a  white  muslin  necker- 
chief crossed  over  her  breast.  She  took  a  good 
deal  of  pride  in  looking  matronly,  and  longed  for 
the  time  when  Anson  would  let  her  wear  a  cap. 
Her  face  fell  as  she  saw  that  her  husband  was 
reading  his  paper  by  the  aid  of  a  very  smoky 
lamp. 

"Oh,  Anson, "  she  cried,  "I  'm  so  sorry!  I 
shall  have  to  get  you  another  lamp." 

"  Can't  the  girl  fill  this  one?  "  he  asked. 

Anson  had  long  since  given  up  trying  to  keep 
run  of  the  "  girls'  "  names. 

"I  'm  afraid  there  is  n't  any  oil,'*  she  said, 
regretfully  ;  "  but  never  mind,  the  other  lamp  will 
do  to  talk  by." 

"Yes,  any  light  will  do  to  talk  by."  When 
the  change  had  been  made,  Emmeline  came  and 
sat  down  beside  him,  with  her  little  confiding  air, 
which  had  disarmed  him  more  than  once  when  he 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  67 

was  on  the  verge  of  rebellion.  But  this  time  his 
heart  was  steeled. 

Anson  Pratt  was  a  fine-looking  man,  an  advan- 
tage of  which  he  himself  made  very  little  account. 
If  he  had  been  told  that  he  had  more  actual 
beauty  than  his  wife,  he  would  have  been  much 
offended.  It  was  nevertheless  a  fact,  and  one 
which  Kmmeline  knew  and  gloried  in.  To-night 
as  she  glanced  at  his  handsome  face  in  the  half- 
light  cast  by  the  second-best  lamp,  a  sudden  mis- 
giving seized  her.  The  face  was  not  at  its  best. 
The  finely  marked  brows  were  contracted,  the 
eyes  looked  nearer  together  than  was  quite 
becoming,  the  lips  were  so  tightly  compressed  as 
to  seem  thinner  than  usual.  Decidedly,  Anson 
was  out  of  sorts.  Oh  !  what  was  it  this  time  ? 
Was  it  buttons?  Or  was  it  fat  in  the  gravy? 
or " 

"Kmmeline,"  Anson  said,  in  a  slightly  con- 
strained voice,  ' '  I  have  been  making  up  my  mind 
about  something  for  a  long  time,  and  now  my 
mind  is  made  up." 

This  was  evidently  a  more  serious  matter  than 
buttons  or  gravy,  and  Kmmeline' s  courage  re- 
vived, as  it  had  a  way  of  doing  in  the  face  of 
a  real  trouble. 

"What  is  it,  Anson?  Do  you  think  you  '11 
have  to  take  a  partner  after  all?" 

"Something  like  it,"  he  answered,  avoiding 
her  eyes  as  he  spoke.  "  I  've  engaged  a  house- 
keeper." 


68  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  A  what?" 

*  *  A  housekeeper.  * ' 

"  Engaged  a  housekeeper?  Why,  Anson, 
what  do  you  mean  ! ' ' 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  I  've  engaged 
the  woman  Sister  Harriet  was  telling  us  about. 
She  's  coming  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"Coming  here,  to  keep  house  for  you?  To 
take  my  place?" 

"She  's  coming  here  to  keep  this  house." 
Emmeline  had  grown  very  white. 

"Why  have  you  taken  such  a  step  without 
consulting  me  ?  ' ' 

"  Because  I  was  sure  you  would  object,  and  I 
did  n't  want  any  discussion." 

1 '  But,  Anson,  what  do  you  want  of  a  house- 
keeper? " 

1 '  What  most  folks  want  of  a  housekeeper.  To 
have  the  house  kept."  Anson  was  desperately 
afraid  that  his  wife  would  persuade  him  to  aban- 
don his  plan,  and  before  she  could  interpose  he 
had  armed  himself  from  top  to  toe  in  his 
grievances. 

"  I  have  borne  a  great  deal,  Emmeline.  I  Ve 
lived  for  seven  years  without  any  of  the  comforts 
of  a  home.  There  is  n't  a  man  in  Dunbridge  who 
has  had  so  much  to  put  up  with  as  I.  And  I  've 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  'm  not  going  to  stand  it 
another  day.  I  'm  going  to  try  for  once  what  it 
is  like  to  have  a  clean  house  and  whole  clothes 
and  something  fit  to  eat." 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  69 

"You  've  lived  for  seven  years  without  the 
comforts  of  a  home  ?  Do  you  mean  that,  Anson  ?  ' ' 

"  I  mean  just  that." 

"  And  there  is  n't  a  man  in  Dunbridge  who  has 
been  so  badly  off  as  you  ?  " 

"  In  some  respects,  no  !  There  is  n't  a  man  in 
Dunbridge  that  is  as  badly  off  as  I." 

Bmmeline  got  up  from  her  chair  and  walked 
about  the  room  with  swift,  nervous  movements. 
Anson  kept  his  seat  and  kept  his  determination. 

At  last  Kmmeline  came  back  and  knelt  down 
beside  his  chair. 

There  were  very  few  women  of  her  day  and 
generation  who  could  have  knelt  down  in  just 
that  supplicating  way,  and  very  few  voices  that 
could  have  sounded  so  beseeching  as  did  hers. 

"  Anson,  won't  you  please  give  me  one  more 
trial?  Won't  you  please  tell  that  woman  not  to 
come?" 

"  No,  I  won't,"  he  answered  stolidly.  "  I  've 
made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  little  comfort,  and 
I  've  engaged  Mrs.  Beach  for  a  month,  beginning 
to-morrow." 

"  But,  Anson,  for  my  sake,  for  both  our  sakes, 
tell  her  not  to  come.  Oh,  Anson  !  I  cannot  bear 
it !  I  am  sure  I  cannot  bear  it — please — please 
don't  let  her  come." 

Her  tone  of  passionate  entreaty  was  too  intense 
to  move  him.  It  seemed  to  him  like  play  acting. 

"I  tell  you,  Bmmeline,"  he  said,  getting  up 
and  leaving  her  kneeling  there  beside  his  chair, 


70  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  the  thing  is  done,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  undo 
it.  It 's  no  more  than  my  right  to  have  at  least  a 
month's  comfort,  and  I  'm  going  to  have  it." 

He  felt  that  in  saying  "  at  least  a  month,"  he 
had  made  a  great  concession. 

As  he  turned  away  Kmmeline  got  up  from  her 
knees  and  steadied  herself  against  the  back  of  the 
chair.  The  blood  had  rushed  back  into  her  white 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  had  an  unnatural  light  in 
them.  But  she  spoke  with  a  great  deal  of  self- 
command. 

"  Anson,"  she  said,  and  he  turned  and  looked 
at  her.  '  *  Anson,  you  will  have  to  choose  be- 
tween us — I  will  not  stay  with  you  one  hour  after 
that  woman  comes  into  the  house." 

"  And  where  shall  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  to  mother's.  But 
that  is  of  no  consequence.  As  long  as  I  cannot  be 
your  housekeeper,  you  will  have  to  choose.  You 
can  have  your  new  housekeeper,  or  you  can  have 
me,  but  you  can't  have  both.  Oh,  Anson,  please 
don't  drive  me  out  of  the  house  like  this,"  she 
cried,  coming  toward  him  and  putting  both  hands 
on  his  arm. 

He  remembered  the  streak  of  dust  that  had 
been  there  the  evening  before. 

' '  Nonsense,  Kmmeline, ' '  he  said,  impatiently, 
shaking  off  her  hands.  "  Don't  be  so  theatrical. 
I  've  engaged  the  woman,  and  she  's  coming,  and 
that 's  all  there  is  about  it.  If  you  've  a  mind  to 
fly  into  a  passion,  I  can't  help  it.  Only  one  thing 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  71 

I  must  insist  upon  !  "  he  added,  sharply.  "  That 
you  stay  in  your  own  house  where  you  belong/' 

"  Nevertheless  I  shall  go." 

There  was  a  tone  of  quiet  self-assertion  in  her 
voice  that  Anson  had  never  heard  before,  and  he 
suddenly  felt  himself  in  a  white  heat  of  anger. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  leave  the  house  !  "  he  cried. 
His  masterful  tone  was  also  new  to  her,  and  for 
a  moment  husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other, 
estranged  and  bewildered,  as  though  all  their  old 
moorings  had  been  swept  away. 

Then  Kmmeline  left  him  and  went  slowly  up 
stairs,  with  despair  in  her  heart.  If  he  could 
speak  to  her  like  that  everything  was  at  an  end. 
Oh  !  Where  should  she  turn,  what  should  she  do  ? 

The  nursery-door  stood  open  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  and  instinctively  she  stayed  her  foot,  The 
children !  Neither  of  them  had  thought  of  the 
children.  She  went  in  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her  and  then  she  knelt  down  by  the  bed  and 
burst  into  tears. 

Tears  have  been  a  good  deal  maligned,  but 
they  are  a  great  comfort.  While  Kmmeline  wept 
by  the  side  of  her  sleeping  boys  she  got  her  bal- 
ance. It  was  impossible  that  she  should  do  full 
justice  to  Anson's  cause  of  complaint,  that  she 
should  quite  appreciate  the  enormity  of  her  own 
transgressions.  Indeed,  her  mind  did  not  busy 
itself  with  either  the  one  or  the  other.  She  simply 
struggled  to  adjust  herself  to  the  situation  as  it 
existed.  After  all  everything  was  not  over. 


72  Pratt  Portraits. 

Here,  at  least,  in  those  sturdy  little  fellows  that 
needed  her  and  needed  their  father  too,  was  some- 
thing real  and  abiding,  something  of  a  good  deal 
more  importance  than  anybody's  injured  sensibili- 
ties. No,  all  was  not  over.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  tragical  about.  She  was  wounded,  humiliated. 
It  was  very  grievous.  But  they  would  get  the 
better  of  it  yet.  Her  soul  revolted  at  the  thought 
of  the  woman  who  was  coming  to  usurp  her 
place,  her  soul  revolted  at  the  tone  in  which  her 
husband  had  spoken  to  her.  But  all  would  yet 
be  well.  She  was  sure  that  all  would  yet  be  well. 
She  kissed  the  boys  very  tenderly,  and  then  she 
slipped  into  her  own  room,  where  she  went  into 
consultation  with  herself. 

Anson,  meanwhile,  resumed  his  seat  and  tried 
hard  not  to  feel  like  a  brute.  Men  are  at  a  great 
disadvantage  in  their  quarrels  with  women.  The 
consciousness  of  a  heavy  hand,  so  to  speak,  dis- 
composes them.  Anson  knew  very  well  that  in  his 
desperate  effort  not  to  soften,  he  had  hardened. 
He  knew  that  his  tone  had  been  masterful,  his 
behavior  unchivalrous.  Somehow  that  interview 
had  given  him  a  new  and  far  from  agreeable  im- 
pression of  himself.  He  found  himself  wondering 
whether,  if  he  had  married  a  less  captivating  and 
irresistible  woman  than  Kmmeline,  he  might  not 
have  turned  out  to  be  a  domestic  tyrant.  He  had 
always  despised  domestic  tyrants. 

Impatiently  he  sought  refuge  in  the  evening 
paper.  But,  alas  !  the  print  was  bad,  and  the 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  73 

second-best  lamp  was  worse,  and  this  small 
annoyance  restored  his  wavering  resolution. 

In  the  broad  light  of  day  matters  did  not  seem 
quite  so  serious,  and  even  when  Bmmeline  told 
him  at  breakfast  that  she  was  really  going  to  pay 
a  visit  to  her  mother,  it  seemed  a  sufficiently 
natural  thing  to  do,  and  he  was  relieved  to  find 
that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  oppose  her.  Mrs. 
Joy  lived  in  the  city,  and  her  house  was  easily  ac- 
cessible. He  was  only  surprised  that  Bmmeline 
did  not  propose  taking  the  children  with  her,  but 
he  reflected  that  her  mother  was  in  delicate  health 
and  might  not  like  two  noisy  boys  about  the 
house. 

The  ' '  high  tragedy  ' '  which  had  annoyed  him 
in  Kmmeline  the  evening  before  had  entirely 
disappeared.  Indeed,  there  was  an  airy  light- 
ness in  her  manner,  when  she  bade  him  good-bye, 
which  was  mortifying  to  him.  He  left  the  house 
with  rather  a  heavy,  inelastic  step,  and  being  but 
a  mortal  man,  he  did  not  feel  her  eyes  upon  him, 
as  she  gazed,  half-blinded  by  tears,  through  the 
slats  of  the  blinds,  after  his  retreating  figure. 

And  now  began  the  era  of  peace  and  order  for 
which  Anson  Pratt  had  longed.  His  new  house- 
keeper proved  to  be  a  most  efficient  woman.  She 
promptly  got  rid  of  the  kitchen  ' '  baggage, ' '  as 
she  termed  the  late  incumbent,  and  took  in  her 
place  a  wild,  red-headed  Irish  girl,  freckled  to  the 
very  tip  of  her  nose,  whose  astonishing  brogue 
and  slam-bang  manners  made  her  seem  anything 


74  Pratt  Portraits. 

but  promising.  Under  Mrs.  Beach's  skilful 
generalship,  however,  she  toned  down  somewhat, 
and  proved  to  be  an  admirable  servant.  Up  early 
in  the  morning,  always  busy,  cheery,  and  good- 
tempered,  serving  delicious  meals,  ready  to  lend  a 
hand  with  the  children,  thoughtful,  and  attentive 
to  her  master.  She  had  a  way  of  helping  Anson 
off  with  his  great-coat,  and  having  his  slippers 
in  readiness  for  him,  which  made  him  feel  like  a 
pampered  aristocrat.  Nor  was  he  ungrateful. 

"  Katie,"  he  said  to  her  one  evening,  "you  're 
a  very  good  girl.  I  hope  you  are  contented  and 
happy  with  us." 

"Indade,  Sorr,  but  I  am"  she  declared 
heartily. 

'  *  Mrs.  Pratt  will  be  pleased  to  find  you  here 
when  she  comes  back. ' ' 

Anson  always  made  a  point  of  referring  to  his 
wife  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Beach  and  Katie,  who 
were  quite  ready  to  regard  her  with  respect  and 
admiration.  Katie  had  a  queer  little  way  of  look- 
ing askance  when  she  had  anything  to  say.  With 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  Anson' s  coat-sleeve  she 
asked  : 

"  An'  is  it  long  that  she  '11  be  bidin'  awa'  ?  " 

"  No,  she  will  come  home  before  long."  Then 
Katie,  blushing  violently  under  her  freckles, 
blurted  out :  "  Beggin'  your  pardon,  Sorr.  It 's 
mesilf  as  was  wonderin'  how  she  could  lave  your 
honor  and  the  two  swate  little  boys,  at  all,  at 
all!" 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  75 

"  Your  mistress  is  obliged  to  be  away,"  Anson 
replied,  with  a  dignity  which  was  intentionally 
chilling  to  the  impulsive  Katie.  She  dropped  an 
apologetic  courtesy  and  retired  precipitately  to 
her  own  domain. 

Now  Anson  Pratt,  who  had  got  what  he  thought 
he  most  wanted,  namely,  an  orderly  house  and  a 
good  table, — Anson  Pratt,  whose  buttons  were 
now  always  sewed  on,  whose  wristbands  were 
never  frayed,  was,  of  course,  far  from  happy. 
Creature  comforts  are  all  very  well,  but  they  are 
not  in  themselves  satisfying.  little  Robbie  quite 
expressed  his  father's  feelings,  when,  after  the 
first  day  of  the  new  regime,  Anson  took  him 
on  his  knee  and  asked  him  how  he  liked  Mrs. 
Beach. 

* '  Pretty  well, ' '  said  Robbie,  ' '  But  I  like  mam- 
ma better." 

Anson  too  found  Mrs.  Beach  and  her  house- 
keeping "pretty  well,"  in  their  way,  but  with 
little  Robbie  he  "liked  mamma  better." 

The  lamp  was  always  filled  now,  and  he  could 
read  his  evening  paper  in  comfort.  But  it  was 
remarkable  how  often  the  paper  had  to  wait  while 
he  pored  over  a  certain  note  which  he  had  received 
the  day  after  Bmmeline's  departure, — a  particular- 
ly foolish  thing  to  do,  since  he  knew  the  note  by 
heart,  and  could  have  read  it  just  as  well  by  the 
light  of  the  second-best  lamp,  or  without  any 
light  at  all,  for  the  matter  of  that. 

The  note  had  said : 


76  Pratt  Portraits. 

' '  Dear  Anson — 

"  Mother  has  asked  me  to  go  on  a  little  journey 
with  her,  and  as  you  are  so  well  taken  care  of  I 
thought  it  was  a  good  time  to  go.  I  write  this  so 
that  you  need  not  come  way  up  to  mother's  for 
nothing.  I  hope  you  like  your  new  housekeeper 
and  that  you  are  enjoying  all  '  the  comforts  of  a 
home.' 

"  Your  affectionate  wife, 

"Emmeline." 

Then  there  was  a  short  postscript  written  in  a 
less  careful  hand  : 

"  Don't  forget  me,  Anson — and  kiss  the  boys 
forme/' 

Anson  did  not  forget  her,  though  he  tried  his 
best  to  take  her  desertion  philosophically.  The 
evening  after  Kmmeline  went  away,  for  instance, 
he  had  resort  to  his  favorite  occupation  of  sawing 
wood,  and  he  sawed  himself,  so  to  speak,  into  a 
very  sensible  frame  of  mind.  But  when  he  came 
upstairs  and  into  the  front  of  the  house,  he 
stopped  mechanically  and  listened.  He  could 
almost  hear  Kmmeline' s  voice  singing : 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  's  a  queen." 

Almost,  but  not  quite.  As  he  stood  with  his 
hand  on  the  stair  railing,  his  heart  sank  at  the 
stillness  of  the  house,  and  then,  lifting  his  hand, 
he  involuntarily  looked  to  see  if  there  was  any 
mark  on  it.  Singularly  enough  he  experienced 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  77 

a  shock  of  disappointment.  No  son  01  daughter 
of  Old  Lady  Pratt  was  ever  morbidly  sentimental. 
Yet  so  much  did  Anson  miss  the  voice  he  had 
listened  for,  that  there  would  have  been  consola- 
tion, he  thought,  in  the  old  familiar  dirt  streak. 
But  alas  !  nothing  was  old  and  familiar.  Every- 
thing was  different. 

And  even  the  creature  comforts  seemed  likely 
to  forsake  him,  for  scarcely  had  Mrs.  Beach  been 
in  the  house  a  week,  when  she  was  suddenly 
called  away  by  the  illness  of  her  daughter. 

Anson 's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  at  the  news. 
Kmmeline  must  come  home  now.  She  must 
come  home  at  once.  He  would  send  for  her. 
But  where  ?  How  ?  She  had  given  him  no  ad- 
dress. She  had  not  written  to  him  again.  At 
first  he  thought  he  would  go  to  Mrs.  Joy's  house 
and  find  out  her  whereabouts.  But  then  his  pride 
arose  and  he  said  to  himself :  ' '  She  has  chosen 
to  leave  me  in  the  lurch.  She  shall  choose  her 
own  time  for  coming  back. ' ' 

Happily  Katie  proved  quite  equal  to  the 
emergency.  She  was  housekeeper  and  servant 
in  one.  She  seemed  able  to  look  after  every- 
thing. The  house,  the  kitchen,  the  master,  and 
the  boys. 

One  evening,  soon  after  Mrs.  Beach's  depart- 
ure, Anson  went  into  the  sitting-room  where  he 
found  Katie  lighting  the  lamp.  In  a  glass  on  the 
table  were  the  first  crocuses  of  the  season.  The 
sight  of  them  touched  him.  Bmmeline  had 


78  Pratt  Portraits. 

always  taken  pride  in  finding  the  first  crocuses  as 
a  surprise  for  him. 

He  stepped  up  and  looked  at  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  boys  came  running  in,  looking 
clean  and  whole  as  they  usually  did  nowadays. 
He  took  little  Aleck  on  his  knee,  and  then  he 
said,  as  Katie  finished  her  task  : 

"  Did  you  put  those  flowers  there,  Katie  ?  " 

"Yes,  Sorr." 

She  stood,  with  her  apron  in  her  mouth,  look- 
ing shy  and  awkward.  "  I  was  thinking  Sorr,  as 
how  it  seemed  so  lonesome-like  after  the  childers 
was  put  to  bed,  and  I  thought  as  how  the  shmall 
flowers  might  be  company  for  ye'z." 

"  Thank  you,  Katie,  they  are  very  pretty,'* 
said  Anson. 

"They  's  my  mamma's  flowers,"  little  Robbie 
declared,  looking  doubtfully  at  the  smiling  Katie. 
Katie  had  a  grotesque  smile.  Her  lips  went  down 
and  in  at  the  corners  in  a  manner  that  was  not 
prepossessing.  She  fixed  her  eyes,  with  an  in- 
consequent expression  on  the  key-board  of  the 
piano,  and  said  :  '  *  Beggin'  your  pardon,  Sorr, 
and  does  the  mistress  like  the  flowers  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Katie.  Your  mistress  likes  flowers," 
Anson  replied,  with  a  queer  feeling  in  his  throat. 

"  My  mamma 's  more  beautifuller  than  those 
flowers,"  Robbie  asserted  stoutly. 

Meanwhile  little  Aleck,  who  had  been  rifling 
his  father's  pockets,  had  pulled  out  a  small  folded 
piece  of  paper.  It  was  before  the  day  of  envel- 


KATIE 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  79 

opes,  and  as  it  fell  from  the  child's  hand  the 
paper  flew  open.  Katie  picked  it  up  and  handed 
it  to  her  master,  who  folded  it  carefully,  and  put 
it  back  in  his  pocket,  chiding  Aleck  rather 
sharply. 

If  Katie  had  been  an  observing  young  woman 
she  would  have  noticed  that  the  bit  of  paper  was 
a  note,  much  worn,  and  presumably  very  old. 
And  yet  if  she  had  been  quick  enough  to  read 
the  date  she  would  have  seen  that  it  was  written 
only  ten  days  ago.  But  wild  Irish  girls  have  not 
always  quick  perceptions,  and  it  is  hardly  to  be 
supposed  that  Katie  made  any  observations  on 
the  subject. 

Whatever  Katie  lacked  in  perception,  however, 
she  made  up  in  feeling.  She  evidently  took  her 
master's  lonely  and  deserted  state  very  much  to 
heart.  As  she  bustled  about  the  dining-room, 
setting  the  table  for  supper,  she  stopped  more  than 
once  to  dry  her  eyes  on  the  corner  of  her  apron. 
Any  one  observing  Katie  in  her  unguarded  mo- 
ments would  have  discovered  that  she  was  one  of 
those  unfortunates  who  are  born  to  do  themselves 
injustice  while  lavishing  devotion  upon  others. 
Such  an  observer  would  have  learned  that  it  was 
her  shyness  which  distorted  her  features  and 
made  her  voice  harsh.  When  she  was  by  herself 
her  freckled  face  lost  much  of  the  gawky  look 
which  it  took  on  in  the  presence  of  her  betters. 
Her  lower  jaw  did  not  drop  so  heavily,  her  eyes 
did  not  look  so  dull.  Her  movements,  too,  were 


80  Pratt  Portraits. 

less  awkward  and  jerky  as  she  laid  the  table  in 
unembarrassed  solitude.  And  when,  an  hour 
after  supper,  she  went  up  to  give  the  boys  their 
baths  and  put  them  to  bed,  there  was  a  tender 
motherliness  about  her  which  was  really  very 
winning. 

Little  Robbie  seemed  full  of  thoughts  of  his 
mother  that  evening.  He  chattered  on  about  her 
to  the  sympathetic  Katie  as  she  polished  off  his 
small  pink  ears,  and  even  when  the  ablutions 
were  over  his  glowing  eulogy  still  continued. 

"She  's  just  the  most  beautifullest  lady  you 
ever  saw,"  he  declared,  as  Katie  tucked  him  up 
in  bed  beside  his  little  brother.  "  You  '11  just 
love  her  so  !  She  's  got  such  pretty  red  cheeks, 
and  such  shiny  black  hair.  Katie,  don't  you 
wish  you  was  pretty  ?  And  she  plays  the  pianner, 
and  she  sings,  Katie — oh  !  she  sings  such  pretty 
songs  when  she  puts  us  to  bed.  Can't  you  sing, 
Katie  ?  Can't  you  sing  just  one  little  song  ? ' ' 

"  Ach  !  go  way  wid  ye'z  !  "  cried  Katie,  "  and 
would  ye  be  afther  makin'  a  lady  o'  the  likes  o* 
me?" 

She  knelt  down  beside  the  bed,  and  tucked  the 
little  fellow  in,  and  then  she  watched  him  as  he 
fell  asleep. 

By  and  by,  when  he  was  breathing  regularly, 
the  warm  flush  coming  on  his  cheeks,  the  lips 
opening  just  a  trifle,  she  stooped  and  kissed  him. 
She  laid  her  arm  across  him  till  her  hand  touched 
his  little  brother,  and  then  she  began  to  croon 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  81 

the  sweetest  song,  very,  very  softly,  and  strangely 
enough,  the  words  were  the  old  familiar  ones; 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  >s  a  queen." 

Robbie  stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  murmured, 
"Mamma,"  and  she  slipped  her  arm  under  his 
head,  and  he  nestled  down  against  her,  and  she 
went  on  singing,  singing : 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  's  a  queen," 

— not  quite  so  softly  now. 

Anson,  sitting  down-stairs  by  himself,  with  the 
crocuses  beside  him,  heard  the  song,  and  a  sud- 
den, superstitious  thrill  went  through  him.  He 
dropped  his  paper,  and  stole  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  and  the  sweet  voice,  crooning  more  softly 
again,  just  reached  his  ear. 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  Js  a  queen." 

"Kmmeline!"  he  cried,  and  bounded  up  the 
stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  nursery,  where  he  could  only  discern  a 
shadowy  figure  kneeling  by  the  bed.  "Kmme- 
line  !  "  he  whispered,  "  Kmmeline  !  " 

"  Sh,  Anson  !     Don't  wake  the  children." 

He  leaned  down  and  tried  to  lift  her  up,  but, 
as  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  he 
could  see  little  Robbie's  head  against  her  breast. 

"  Kmmeline  !  Kmmeline  !  When  did  you  come 
home?" 

"  I  've  been  here  all  the  time,"  she  said,  with 
o 


82  Pratt  Portraits. 

a  little  sob,  gently  laying  Robbie's  head  upon 

the  pillow.     ' '  You  stupid,  stupid  Anson  !    You 

never  knew  me  ! ' ' 

' '  Emmeline  !    What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Sure  an'  I  'm  thinkin'  the  misthress  has  got 

home,  Sorr!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  faithful  Katie,  whom  he 

was  apparently  holding  in  his  arms. 


"  And  did  you  really  think,"  asked  Emmeline, 
an  hour  later,  when  they  sat  together  by  the 
light  of  the  best  lamp, — "And  did  you  really 
think  that  I  could  leave  you  and  the  children  for 
ten  whole  days,  and  not  know  how  you  were 
getting  along?" 

"No,  I  could  n't  have  thought  so,"  said 
Anson,  with  conviction.  "I  could  n't  possibly 
have  thought  that.  I  must  have  known  all  the 
time  that  you  were  Katie,  only  I  did  n't  quite 
take  it  in." 

As  Anson  looked  at  his  wife's  face,  where  a 
few  of  the  more  obdurate  freckles  still  clung,  and 
into  the  eyes  which  looked  so  natural  and  so  dear, 
in  spite  of  the  hint  of  red  which  still  lingered  in 
the  eyebrows,  he  thought  that  he  had  never  been 
so  well  content  in  all  his  life— no,  not  even  seven 
years  ago,  when  his  wife  seemed  to  him  to  be  a 
perfectly  faultless  being.  But  he  only  said  : 

"Go  and  play  me  something,  Kmmeline.  I 
have  n't  heard  the  piano  for  so  long." 


A  Domestic  Crisis.  83 

And  as  the  sweet  familiar  chords  answered  to 
the  old  magic  of  her  touch,  he  got  up  and  took 
the  crocuses  over  to  the  piano,  and  set  them 
down  where  she  could  see  them,  and  she  played 
on  and  on,  nearly  all  the  evening. 

That  was  a  very  pleasant  evening,  and  it 
taught  them  more  than  all  their  troubles  had 
done.  Things  never  came  to  such  a  very  bad 
pass  again.  When,  occasionally,  this  or  that 
went  wrong  in  the  household,  and  the  old  Betty 
in  Anson  rebelled,  Bmmeline  would  strengthen 
her  own  resolution,  and  Anson's  patience  too,  by 
crooning  softly,  as  though  to  herself,  a  certain 
old  nursery  rhyme,  beginning  : 

"  Father  's  a  nobleman,  mother  's  a  queen." 


IV. 

BEN'S  WIFE. 

BEN'S  wife  was  a  Hazeldean — a  fact  which 
that  estimable  woman  rarely  lost  sight 
of.  It  was,  perhaps,  not  to  be  expected 
that  her  husband  and  her  husband's  fam- 
ily should  give  quite  due  weight  to  the  circum- 
stance, but  they  were  not  allowed  to  forget  it.  At 
first,  to  be  sure,  the  Pratts,  who  were  themselves 
unpretentious  sort  of  people,  were  not  without 
some  pride  in  the  connection  ;  and  even  Old  Lady 
Pratt  herself  did  not  object  to  letting  fall  the  re- 
mark that  "  Ben's  wife  was  a  Hazeldean."  An 
advantage  like  this,  however,  is  one  that  should 
be  sparingly  used  by  its  possessor  ;  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that  Mrs.  Ben  was  inclined  to  push 
it  more  than  was  quite  well-judged,  and  that,  as 
time  went  on,  the  Pratts  allowed  a  suspicion  of 
satire  to  creep  into  the  statement  which  had  been 
made  at  first  in  perfect  good  faith. 

Yet  there  was  much  to  be  said  in  defence  of 

Mrs.  Ben.     Perhaps  no  one  who  has  not  had  the 

experience  can  justly  estimate  the  sacrifice  which 

the  woman  makes  who  relinquishes  a  name  of 

84 


Bens    Wife.  85 

three  syllables,  and  one  of  such  romantic  and 
poetic  associations  as  Hazeldean  (if,  indeed,  there 
be  such  another)  for  a  curt,  unembellished  mono- 
syllable like  Pratt. 

Moreover,  this  foible,  together  with  certain 
trifling  vanities  and  affectations  engendered  by  it, 
was  almost  the  only  flaw  in  an  honest  and  kindly, 
if  somewhat  high-strung  nature.  "  Ben's  wife  " 
was  worthy  of  that  title  and  proud  of  it  too. 
She  knew  in  her  heart  that  she  would  rather  have 
been  Ben's  wife  than  a  duchess.  Yet  being 
securely  Ben's  wife  for  all  time,  and,  as  she 
devoutly  believed,  for  all  eternity,  she  still  en- 
joyed the  retrospective  glory  of  having  been  a 
Hazeldean. 

Her  first  son  was  unquestioningly  named  Ben- 
jamin ;  but  great  was  her  rejoicing  when  the 
third  child  turned  out  to  be  a  boy,  and  she  could 
call  him  Hazeldean — Hazeldean  Pratt !  She 
felt  as  though  she  had  never  appreciated  her  own 
name  until  this  happy  combination  proved  what  a 
lustre  it  could  throw  upon  a  single  commonplace 
syllable.  The  boy  was  called  Hazeldean  from 
his  cradle,  and  no  corruption  of  the  name  was 
ever  tolerated  in  the  family.  The  two  elder 
children,  when  they  first  ventured  to  call  their 
little  brother  "Hazie,  for  short,"  were  promptly 
suppressed,  and  by  the  time  the  younger  ones 
came  to  speech,  the  three  syllables  were  so  firmly 
established  in  their  rights  that  they  seemed  one 
and  indivisible. 


86  Pratt  Portraits. 

Ben's  wife  was  fond  of  dress,  but  Heaven  for- 
bid that  that  be  accounted  a  flaw !  She  was  a 
woman  of  excellent  taste,  thanks  to  which  her 
house  and  her  person  were  always  as  pleasant  to 
look  upon  as  the  fashions  of  the  day  would  per- 
mit. When  the  large  hoops  came  into  vogue, 
she  was  forced  into  them,  as  it  were,  for  she  would 
have  been  unpleasantly  conspicuous  without 
them.  Yet  she  was  never  betrayed  into  extremes, 
and  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  "  floating 
bell,"  when  that  climax  of  crinoline  exaggera- 
tion appeared  upon  the  scene. 

In  her  house  she  was  more  independent  still. 
It  was  a  square  house,  modest,  yet  roomy,  with 
the  inevitable  cupola  on  top.  The  house  was 
painted  gray  with  darker  gray  blinds,  to  suit  the 
taste  of  the  mistress,  who  disapproved  the  pre- 
vailing white  and  green  of  the  suburb  where  she 
lived.  When  she  refurnished  her  parlor,  some 
fifteen  years  after  her  marriage,  she  boldly  re- 
jected the  brilliant  crimsons  and  liberal  gildings 
of  the  period  in  favor  of  quiet  colors.  She  chose 
a  carpet  of  olive-brown  Brussels  with  a  dull  red 
palm-leaf  pattern,  and  window  hangings  of  olive 
brown  rep  and  plush,  the  effect  being  lightened 
by  inner  curtains  of  the  finest  and  whitest  mus- 
lin. Her  furniture  and  her  wall-paper  were  in 
soft  neutral  tints  such  as  would  to-day  be  called 
aesthetic,  though  they  were  little  appreciated  at 
that  time,  even  by  Ben  himself.  Indeed,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  Ben,  when  he  gave  his  wife 


Bens    Wife.  87 

carte  blanche  for  refurnishing,  had  been  dazzled 
by  the  most  resplendent  visions  of  red  velvet  sofas 
and  a  red  velvet  carpet  bestrewn  with  baskets  of 
pink  and  white  roses,  similar  to,  but  even  sur- 
passing in  brilliancy,  the  possessions  of  his  wealthy 
brother-in-law  James  Spencer.  His  cheerful  resig- 
nation when  this  glittering  bubble  of  his  fancy 
was  pricked  by  the  delicate  point  of  his  wife's 
finer  perception,  only  showed  what  a  thoroughly 
good  Christian  Ben  was,  and  the  amiability  with 
which  he  submitted  to  the  olive  browns  was 
eventually  not  without  its  reward.  For  many 
years  after,  the  wheel  of  fashion  having  taken 
another  turn,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his 
neighbors  revolutionize  their  houses  at  great 
expense,  for  the  sake  of  bringing  about  the  very 
condition  of  subdued  harmony  which  had  so  long 
reigned  under  his  own  roof.  Then  it  was  that 
Mrs.  Ben,  who  had  meanwhile  become  an  old 
woman,  reaped  a  belated  harvest  of  praise,  and 
rejoiced  in  the  consciousness  of  having  proved 
herself  to  have  been  thirty  years  in  advance  of 
her  time. 

But  this  is  a  digression. 

At  the  date  in  question,  though  the  olive 
browns  had  not  yet  found  their  justification,  Mrs. 
Ben,  or  Martha,  as  she  was  more  familiarly  called, 
had  won  a  reputation  as  a  very  safe  authority  in 
matters  of  taste. 

She  was  now  the  mother  of  five  children,  rang- 
ing in  age  from  eighteen-year-old  Ben  down  to 


88  Pratt  Portraits. 

little  Bddie,  a  small  mischief  of  five.  She  lavished 
upon  them  an  adoring  affection,  yet  she  was  not 
an  over-indulgent  mother,  for  she  had  very  well- 
defined  theories  in  regard  to  education.  Her  hus- 
band, secure  in  the  conviction  that  his  children 
would  get  all  the  training  they  needed  without 
his  doing  violence  to  his  own  inclinations  in  the 
cause  of  discipline,  was  not  afraid  to  spoil  them 
to  his  heart's  content ;  and  there  was  no  denying 
that  he,  with  his  good-humored  smile  and  sly 
jokes,  had,  all  unconsciously,  stolen  many  a 
march  upon  his  wife  in  their  young  affections. 

Ben  had  a  great  respect  for  his  wife's  theories, 
though  he  himself  did  not  possess  the  sign  of  one. 
She,  on  her  part,  could  forgive  him  the  lack, 
since  her  own  pet  theories  found  an  embodiment 
in  his  person.  He  was  her  ideal  of  what  a  man 
should  be — an  exemplification  of  all  the  broad 
virtues  which  she  considered  essential  in  a  manly 
character.  He  had  courage,  integrity,  good 
judgment,  and  equanimity.  Moreover,  his  very 
failings  were  such  as  to  endear  him  still  more  to 
his  wife.  In  the  first  place  he  was  forgetful,  a 
shortcoming  which  tallied  very  satisfactorily  with 
her  theory  that  a  man  should  be  too  much  pre- 
occupied with  great  affairs  to  have  a  memory  for 
small  ones.  Another  source  of  gratification  to  her 
was  his  negligence  in  regard  to  his  clothes  and 
other  belongings  ;  she  having  always  entertained  a 
lively  contempt  for  a  ' '  finical ' '  man.  Best  of  all, 
he  was  open-handed  to  a  fault,  an  admired  weak- 


Bens   Wife.  89 

ness  which  she  joyfully  corrected  by  the  practice 
of  small  and  persistent  economies,  such  as  she 
would  have  censured  in  him. 

Martha's  excitability  of  temperament,  due,  not 
to  nerves,  but  to  an  uncommonly  active  imagina- 
tion, was  a  constant  source  of  wonder  to  Ben, 
though  as  years  went  by  he  had  learned  to  treat 
it  lightly. 

' '  Ben, ' '  she  would  exclaim  at  supper  of  a  Satur- 
day evening,  while  her  eyes  grew  big  with  appre- 
hension, and  suppressed  anxiety  vibrated  in  her 
voice — "  O  Ben  !  Did  you  remember  to  order  any 
dinner  for  to-morrow  ?  "  It  was  plain  that  the 
vision  of  a  starving  family  had  suddenly  terrified 
her  imagination. 

Ben  would  take  a  spoonful  of  quince  preserve 
with  the  slow  relish  of  an  epicure,  then  look  across 
the  table  at  his  anxious  helpmeet,  with  a  deepen- 
ing of  the  crow's  feet  which  a  life  of  quiet  humor 
had  prematurely  graven  at  the  corners  of  his  blue 
eyes,  and  say,  in  a  tone  of  inimitable  self-com- 
placency :  '  *  Yes,  Martha,  I  got  a  little  salt  fish 
and  a  cent's  worth  of  asparagus." 

Then  the  children  would  become  hilarious  over 
their  father's  wit,  Martha  would  draw  a  long  sigh 
of  relief,  untroubled  by  his  jesting,  and,  behold, 
the  crisis  was  passed. 

Ben's  wife  was  a  great  reader  of  books,  especially 
of  history ;  and  the  histories  of  that  day  being 
chiefly  a  succession  of  royal  biographies,  her 
imagination  was  peopled  with  kings  and  queens. 


go  Pratt  Portraits. 

She  had  always  cherished  a  secret  desire  to  behold 
a  crowned  head — a  desire  of  which  she  was  a  little 
ashamed,  in  her  republican  heart,  yet  which  rose 
to  fever  heat  when  the  papers  announced  the 
coming  visit  of  the  young  Prince  of  Wales  to  this 
country.  His  head,  to  be  sure,  had  not  yet  been 
crowned,  but  was  he  not  the  next  heir  to  the  great 
throne  of  England,  and  was  he  not  a  youth  in 
whom  past  and  future  united  to  produce  an  historic 
and  romantic  personage  of  the  first  water  ?  And 
she,  Martha  Hazeldean  (for  so  she  still  called 
herself  in  her  moments  of  exaltation),  she  was 
to  behold  with  her  own  eyes  this  royal  boy. 
She  eagerly  read  all  the  newspaper  items  which 
heralded  and  accompanied  his  visit  to  Canada, 
whilst  Harper's  Weekly,  to  which  she  was  a  sub- 
scriber, acquired  a  new  and  dramatic  interest 
when  portraits  of  the  young  prince  began  to 
appear  among  the  illustrations  of  that  admirable 
paper. 

Ben  was,  of  course,  well  aware  of  his  wife's  state 
of  mind.  If  he  had  tried  to  do  so,  he  could  not 
have  shared  her  feeling,  and  it  never  occurred  to 
him  to  try.  Ben  was  not  sufficiently  subtle  to 
make  any  endeavors  to  cultivate  sentiments 
which  did  not  spring  up  of  their  own  accord.  He 
was  republican  to  the  core,  and  he  could  not  see 
that  Queen  Victoria's  son  was  necessarily  more 
interesting  than  his  own  boys.  That  a  great 
country,  which  had  emancipated  itself  at  the  cost 
of  blood  and  treasure  from  all  the  "  folderol "  of 


Bens    Wife.  91 

royalty,  should  be  so  ready  to  make  a  toy  of  it  at 
the  first  opportunity,  struck  him  as  being  quite  as 
absurd  as  though  his  eighteen-year-old  Ben  were 
deliberately  to  go  back  to  nursery  rhymes  and 
tin  soldiers. 

But  though  Ben  did  not  share  his  wife's  feelings 
he  was  as  ready  to  gratify  them  as  though  they 
had  been  his  own. 

One  pleasant  afternoon  in  October,  Mrs.  Ben, 
adorned  with  a  black  silk  apron  and  wearing  a 
deep  Shaker  sun-bonnet,  was  out  in  the  garden 
gathering  a  basketful  of  late  nasturtiums,  with 
which  to  put  a  touch  of  autumn  sunshine  into  her 
olive-brown  parlor.  She  had  the  faculty  of  dis- 
posing a  bit  of  color  just  in  the  place  where  it  was 
needed,  and  Ben  had  begun  to  perceive  that  these 
judicious  touches  gave  their  rooms  a  gayer, 
cheerier  air,  than  all  the  downright  crimson  and 
gold  seemed  able  to  impart  to  the  highly  colored 
apartments  which  had  once  been  his  envy. 

As  she  stooped  to  trace  with  careful  fingers  the 
windings  of  one  of  the  delicate,  brittle  stems,  she 
heard  a  step  upon  the  gravel  walk,  and  glancing 
up,  beheld  her  husband  coming  toward  her.  His 
appearance  so  early  in  the  day  would  have  alarmed 
her  had  she  not  perceived  a  twinkle  of  roguish 
mystery  in  his  eyes,  which  he  was  vainly  trying 
to  repress. 

"  Why,  Ben  !  "  she  exclaimed,  rising  hastily  to 
her  feet  and  hurrying  toward  him.  "  What  has 
brought  you  home  so  early  ?  " 


92  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  Is  it  early  ?  "  lie  asked,  innocently,  making 
as  though  he  would  attack  the  citadel  of  the 
Shaker  bonnet, 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  You  '11  muss  my  hair  !"  she  cried, 
retreating. 

"  All  done  up  for  the  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  was  the  reproachful  answer. 
"  But,  Ben,  what  has  brought  you  home  so  early?' ' 

"Old  Pacer,"  he  replied,  this  time  with  a  still 
more  quizzical  look. 

Ben  was  not  the  man  to  be  hurried  into  an 
agreeable  disclosure.  He  loved  too  well  the 
pleasures  of  anticipation. 

"Has  anything  happened?"  she  asked,  with 
growing  impatience. 

"Yes.     I've  got  home." 

Ben  was  sometimes  very  trying. 

"  Come,  Martha,"  he  called,  as  she  started,  in 
simulated  dudgeon,  to  walk  away  to  her  nastur- 
tium beds,  "  let 's  go  and  get  some  grapes." 

1 '  Good — ain't  they  ?  "  he  observed,  as  they  sat  in 
the  long  arbor,  eating  the  delicious  Catawbas  that 
grew  in  beautiful  clusters  just  within  their  reach. 

A  pleasant  silence  fell  upon  them,  broken  only 
by  the  clucking  of  hens  in  a  neighbor's  yard, 
while  the  mellow  October  sunshine  filtered 
through  the  thinning  vines  and  checkered  the 
backs  of  the  two  figures  sitting  amicably  together. 
Martha  had  taken  off  her  Shaker  bonnet,  and  the 
sunshine  slanted  across  the  glossy  black  hair, 
which  was  brushed  smoothly  down  over  the  ears, 


Bens    Wife.  93 

and  passed  in  flat  braids  across  the  back  of  the 
head.  She  was  not  as  much  absorbed  in  epicu- 
rean delight  as  her  husband  seemed  to  be,  but 
since  he  was  in  a  teasing  mood  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  talk  to  him. 

Presently  he  spoke  in  an  absent  tone  which 
seemed  a  trifle  studied,  while  he  held  up  a  fresh 
bunch  of  grapes  to  his  own  admiring  gaze. 

"  I  don't  s'pose,  Martha,  that  you  'dcare  any- 
thing about  going  to  the  Prince's  ball?  " 

"The  Prince's  ball!"  cried  Martha,  with  a 
flush  of  excitement.  Then,  recovering  herself : 
11  Nonsense,  Ben  !  What  a  tease  you  are  !  " 

"Oh,  then  you  would  n't  care  to  go?  Well, 
I  told  Edward  I  didn't  think  you 'd  take  any 
interest  in  it,  and  I  felt  pretty  sure  you  would 
n't  want  the  trouble  of  having  a  ball-dress  made. 
I  know  I  should  n't." 

' '  O  Ben  !  Is  there  really  going  to  be  a  ball 
for  the  Prince,  and  is  Edward  going?  " 

"Yes,  Edward 's  going,  and  he  thought  may 
be,  as  lyucia  was  in  mourning,  you  might  like  to 
take  her  place  and  go  with  him.  But  I  didn't 
s'pose  you  'd  care  much  about  it." 

Martha's  face  glowed,  and  Ben's  countenance 
was  simply  brimming  with  satisfaction  as  he 
watched  the  dawning  upon  her  of  this  great,  this 
stupendous  idea. 

"  O  Ben  !  you  know  I  should  like  to  go  !  Of 
course  you  said  yes;  now  did  n't  you  ?  Ah,  don't 
tease  !  Come,  tell  me  all  about  it. ' ' 


94  Pratt  Portraits. 

Then  Ben,  having  sipped  his  cup  of  pleasure 
long  enough,  proceeded  to  drink  it  down  in  gen- 
erous draughts  ;  for  he  loved,  of  all  things,  to 
make  Martha's  eyes  shine. 

For  the  next  ten  days  Mrs.  Ben  was  in  a  whirl 
of  excitement.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  the 
gown  to  be  bought  and  made.  She  decided  upon 
a  "moire*  antique,"  a  silk  then  in  the  height  of 
fashion,  and  which  she  considered  economical, 
because  of  its  great  durability.  She  was  divided 
in  her  mind  between  several  neutral  tints.  One 
was  called  "  ashes  of  roses  "  ;  another  rejoiced  in 
the  euphonious  name  of  "monkey's  breath. " 
When  she  finally  fixed  her  choice  upon  a  rich 
"  mauve,"  Ben  could  not  be  persuaded  to  call  it 
anything  but  * '  ashes  of  monkeys. ' '  But  to 
Martha,  nothing  which  concerned  the  ball  seemed 
a  fit  subject  for  mirth.  It  was  really  a  solemn 
occasion  to  her,  this  entering  into  the  immediate, 
the  actual  presence  of  royalty.  The  only  diffi- 
culty was  that  it  engrossed  her  thoughts  too 
much.  She  felt  it ;  she  regretted  it ;  yet  do  what 
she  would,  she  could  not  keep  her  thoughts  fixed 
upon  any  other  subject. 

She  had  not  dared  entrust  the  making  of  so 
grand  a  gown  to  little  Miss  Plimpton,  who  went 
out  by  the  day,  and  had  hitherto  contented  the 
ambition  of  the  family,  and  she  had  thus  fallen  a 
victim  to  a  fashionable  dressmaker,  who  had  the 
reputation  of  disappointing  her  customers.  Hence, 
in  the  days  that  were  to  elapse  before  her  gown 


Sens  Wife.  95 

should  come  home,  poor  Martha  did  not  have  a 
moment's  peace  of  mind.  Questions  also  arose 
of  the  very  highest  importance  in  regard  to  the 
fashion  of  the  dress,  which  she  alone  could 
decide.  Should  the  skirt  be  looped  in  five  fes- 
toons, or  six  ?  Should  the  trimming  be  of  black 
lace,  or  white  ?  Was  llama  lace  sufficiently  rich 
for  a  Prince's  ball,  or  did  etiquette  demand  "real 
thread  "  ?  On  the  one  hand,  llama  lace  was  much 
cheaper,  but  then  it  was  quite  inferior.  And  is 
not  the  best  the  cheapest,  when  judged  by  true 
standards?  Thread  lace,  for  instance,  could  be 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  and 
would  always  be  valuable.  It  was  almost  like 
real-estate,  or  diamonds.  If  she  only  had  dia- 
monds to  wear,  by  the  way  !  But  alas  !  though 
she  was  a  Hazeldean,  her  share  of  the  family 
jewels  consisted  in  a  pair  of  topaz  ear-rings 
and  a  set  of  turquoise;  both  of  which  were 
manifestly  unsuited  to  a  state  occasion.  Even 
the  diamond  ring  which  Ben  had  given  her 
on  their  tenth  anniversary  would  be  concealed  by 
her  glove. 

These,  and  like  perplexities  and  speculations, 
were  chasing  each  other  like  mad  through  her 
brain  while  she  went  about  her  household  duties, 
and,  sad  to  say,  even  when  she  sat  in  church. 
Strive  as  she  might  the  next  Sunday,  she  could 
not  rid  her  mind  of  the  idea  that  the  number  of 
festoons  in  her  skirt  was  to  be  settled  by  the 
number  of  heads  in  Mr.  Hawley's  sermon.  And 


96  Pratt  Portraits. 

when  he  wound  up  on  "fifthly,"  so  preoccupied 
was  she  in  trying  to  picture  to  herself  the  ' '  effect " 
of  the  five  festoons  thus  decided  upon,  she 
scarcely  heard  the  salutary  admonition,  "  Fix  not 
your  hearts  upon  the  things  of  this  world. ' ' 

None  of  the  Pratt  family  had  thought  of  such 
a  thing  as  going  to  the  ball,  and  indeed  it  was 
well  that  they  had  not.  For  boasting,  as  they 
did,  but  few  connections  in  high  life,  they  might 
not  have  gained  admittance.  Martha's  brother 
Edward,  on  the  other  hand,  had  married  the 
daughter  of  a  ' '  merchant  prince, ' '  (  a  fitting 
alliance  for  a  Hazeldean),  and  he  lived  in  the 
city,  where  he  was  quite  a  personage.  It  was, 
therefore,  most  natural  that  he  should  come  to 
the  fore  on  occasions  like  the  present. 

The  Pratts,  however,  though  themselves  too 
stanch  in  their  republicanism  to  regret  their 
own  exclusion  from  the  ball,  were  far  from 
indifferent  to  Martha's  coming  elevation.  They 
only  half  approved  the  expensive  new  dress, 
indeed,  on  the  ground  that  she  was  not 
likely  ever  to  have  another  chance  to  wear  it, 
but  they  were  none  the  less  eager  to  see  her 
in  it,  and  there  were  few  persons  among  their 
large  acquaintance  who  had  not  been  informed 
that  "  Ben's  wife  was  going  to  the  Prince's  ball." 
Whence  it  is  fair  to  conclude  that  they  were  not 
positively  ashamed  of  the  circumstance. 

Old  Lady  Pratt  alone  held  out  against  the 
popular  current  of  curiosity  and  excitement.  She 


Bens  Wife.  97 

had  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  War  of  1812,  and 
of  the  burning  of  public  buildings  at  Washington, 
and  to  her  the  British  were,  and  would  always 
remain,  "the  enemy."  As  to  "  Martha's  craze," 
she  contented  herself  with  one  bit  of  sarcasm, 
which  gave  her  much  gratification  and  hurt 
nobody.  She  told  Harriet,  her  eldest  daughter 
and  confidante,  that  she  "s*  posed  Martha  was 
countin'  on  gettin*  a  chance  to  tell  the  Prince 
that  she  was  a  Hazeldean." 

For  her  own  part,  Old  Lady  Pratt  was  con- 
vinced that  she  would  not  have  gone  to  the 
window  to  look  out  if  the  procession  had  passed 
through  Green  Street ;  a  degree  of  patriotism  on 
the  old  lady's  part,  which  was,  happily,  not  des» 
tined  to  be  put  to  the  test. 

The  ball  was  to  take  place  on  Thursday  even* 
ing,  and  on  Wednesday  morning  the  Prince  actu- 
ally did  arrive  in  Boston.  The  two  boys,  Ben 
and  Hazeldean,  who  went  to  school  in  town, 
witnessed  the  august  entry  into  the  city,  but 
the  rest  of  the  family  succeeded  in  curbing  their 
impatience  until  the  grand  procession  which  was 
announced  for  the  next  day.  Mrs.  Ben  awaited 
the  return  of  the  boys  with  the  keenest  interest. 
She  was  somewhat  disappointed  in  their  report, 
in  which  the  "  Light  Dragoons"  and  the  crowd 
of  spectators  played  a  more  conspicuous  part 
than  the  Prince  himself.  To  her  urgent  inquiries 
in  regard  to  his  Royal  Highness,  these  unsus- 
ceptible young  republicans  had  nothing  more 


gS  Pratt  Portraits. 

definite  to  say  than  that  they  "  guessed  he  was 
well  enough." 

The  grand  gown  had  not  yet  arrived,  but 
during  supper  a  messenger,  who  had  been  sent  to 
inquire  about  it,  came  back  with  the  cheering 
assurance  that  it  was  coming  in  an  hour.  There- 
upon the  boys  were  despatched  to  tell  Aunt  Har- 
riet and  the  girls  that  their  mother  would  try  on 
the  dress  as  soon  as  it  should  arrive,  and  would 
be  glad  of  their  opinion.  Little  Bddie,  who  was 
somewhat  hoarse,  and  was  in  wholesome  fear  of 
missing  the  procession  next  day,  submitted  to  an 
early  bed,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  family  sat  await- 
ing, with  bated  breath,  the  arrival  of  the  gown. 
It  was  a  tedious  evening,  for  the  faithless  dress- 
maker did  not  redeem  her  promise  until  nearly 
ten  o'clock.  In  fact,  Harriet  and  the  girls  were 
on  the  point  of  departing  when  the  door-bell 
rang,  sending  a  tidal  wave  of  excitement  over  the 
stagnant  waters  of  the  company. 

The  gown  was  displayed  with  much  ceremony, 
and  all  agreed  that  it  was  ' '  both  handsome  and 
genteel."  Harriet  and  the  girls  helped  put  it 
on,  and  so  satisfying  was  the  effect  that  the 
wished-for  jewels  were  scarcely  missed.  Indeed, 
something  of  the  translucent  light  and  glow  of 
gems  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  mother-of-pearl 
fan  with  which  Edward  had  thoughtfully  pre- 
sented his  sister,  and  which  lent  a  peculiar  air  of 
distinction  to  the  toilette. 

I,ate  as  the  hour  was,  they  all  lingered  a  long 


MARTHA 


Bens  Wife.  99 

time,  chattering  and  admiring  and  speculating  as 
to  the  impending  glories.  The  boys,  being  sleepy 
after  the  conflicting  duties  and  excitements  of 
the  day  in  the  city,  were  the  first  to  disappear. 
Then  the  Pratt  girls  were  sent  to  bed,  and  pres- 
ently Ben  escorted  his  sister  and  nieces  home, 
leaving  Martha  in  solitary  possession  of  her  own 
magnificence. 

While  the  voices  of  her  departing  guests  were 
still  audible  on  the  stairs,  Martha,  who  could  no 
longer  restrain  her  impatience  for  a  complete 
view  of  herself,  mounted  upon  a  chair  before  her 
toilet-glass.  From  this  eminence  she  could  see  her 
voluminous  skirts  to  great  advantage,  and  even 
the  open-worked  stockings  encased  in  bronze 
slippers  were  visible.  The  head,  to  be  sure,  was 
not  included  in  the  reflection — a  fact  which  quite 
escaped  her  notice  ;  for  Martha's  vanity  was  of  a 
singularly  impersonal  kind,  and  she  was  as  un- 
conscious of  any  charms  of  countenance  as  she 
was  of  the  graces  of  disposition  which  others 
prized  in  her.  It  was  the  gown,  and  that  alone, 
which  commanded  her  respect  and  admiration. 
She  stood  there  so  lost  in  contemplation  of  its 
beauties  that  she  scarcely  noticed  that  her  guests 
still  lingered  in  the  passage-way,  till  she  heard 
the  heavy  thud  of  the  front  door  closing  upon 
them. 

A  sudden  hush  ensued.  She  stood  upon  the 
chair,  turning  slowly  round  and  round  after  the 
manner  of  the  lay  figures  in  the  shop-windows, 


I  oo  Pratt  Portraits. 

when  suddenly  she  became  aware  of  a  strange, 
muffled  sound.  She  paused,  straining  her  ear 
to  listen.  What  was  it  ?  Her  heart  stood  still 
beneath  the  stiff  breastplate  of  moire  antique. 
Could  it  be  burglars  ?  No  ;  it  was  too  early,  and 
there  were  lights  burning.  Was  it  the  wind  ? 
The  wind  never  made  a  sound  like  that.  And 
even  while  she  tried  to  reason  about  it,  the  con- 
viction seized  her  that  it  was  a  creature  in  dis- 
tress. Only  for  a  moment  did  she  stand  motion- 
less, her  eyes  dilating  with  dread,  the  blood 
surging  to  her  heart.  Then,  with  a  stifled  cry, 
she  sprang  from  the  chair,  flinging  far  from  her 
the  fan  which  she  had  held  in  her  hand,  and  rushed 
to  her  dressing-room,  through  her  dressing-room 
to  little  Eddie's  chamber  beyond  ;  for — oh,  terri- 
ble certainty  ! — it  was  from  his  room,  from  his 
bed,  from  his  lips,  that  the  blood-curdling  sound 
came  ! 

"  My  darling  !  my  precious  !  what  is  it?  "  she 
cried,  bending  over  him  in  mortal  terror.  * '  Speak 
my  darling  !  speak,  Eddie  !  Tell  mother. ' ' 

But  the  cruel  gurgling  and  gasping  were  the 
only  answer.  With  shaking  hands  she  struck  a 
light.  There  lay  the  poor  little  fellow  battling  for 
his  life,  his  face  purple,  his  eyes  bright  with  dis- 
tress. 

She  opened  the  entry  door,  and  fairly  flew  to 
the  boys'  room.  "  Ben  !  Ben  !  "  she  cried,  "  run 
for  the  doctor  !  Eddie  is  dying  of  the  croup  !  Run 
for  your  life  !  Hazeldean  !  go  for  Dr.  Baxter ;  Dr. 


Bens    Wife,       ,    ,     .  ,,.  TOJ 


Walton  may  be  out.  Run,  boys !  Fetch  some 
one — any  one  !  Run  ! ' ' 

The  boys  were  on  their  feet  in  an  instant.  In 
another  moment  she  was  at  the  child's  bedside, 
trying  one  ineffectual  remedy  after  another.  Her 
slender  science  was  soon  exhausted,  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. The  struggle  went  on  in  a  succession  of 
alarming  paroxysms.  Then  she  sat  upon  the  bed 
and  held  the  suffocating  child  in  her  arms,  trem- 
bling in  a  despairing  knowledge  that  she  could 
not  help  him,  yet  with  the  deep  overwhelming 
urgency  of  a  mother's  love,  which  cannot  credit 
its  own  impotency.  She  held  him  close,  one  of  his 
little  hands  convulsively  clasping  hers,  the  small 
curly  head  pressed  hard  against  her  breast.  Oh  ! 
the  pathos  of  those  baby  curls,  and  that  drawn, 
agonized  baby  face  ! 

"  In  a  minute,  my  precious  !  "  she  kept  saying, 
"  in  a  minute  the  doctor  '11  come  and  make  you 
well — -just  a  minute,  my  poor  darling.  It  '11  be 
over  soon." 

Over  ?  How  ?  As  she  spoke  the  words  a 
desolating  fear  swept  all  her  faith  away,  and 
suddenly,  as  in  a  flash  of  light,  those  other 
words,  unheeded  and  forgotten,  struck  upon  her 
memory  :  * '  Fix  not  your  hearts  upon  the  things 
of  this  world." 

She  looked  down  with  a  quick  pang  of  remorse 
upon  the  stiff  moire"  antique.  Alas  !  she  who 
would  have  enfolded  her  darling  in  the  softest 
textures,  must  see  him  lie  in  his  extremity  against 


i  o  2  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  cold,  tmtender  surface  of  this  hateful  gown  ! 
The  poignancy  of  that  thought  was  almost  more 
than  she  could  bear,  and  in  the  sudden  rush  of 
remorse  and  terror  all  her  innocent  vanity  stood 
distorted  into  the  guise  of  sin. 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  "  she  prayed,  as  she  had 
never  prayed  before,  "  I  have  been  a  wicked, 
worldly  woman  !  Oh,  my  God  !  have  pity  !  " 
No  other  words  came,  but  all  through  those  inter- 
minable minutes  while  she  waited  for  help,  '  *  Have 
pity  !  "  she  prayed,—"  have  pity  !  " 

And  suddenly,  like  an  angel  of  deliverance, 
the  doctor  stood  before  her.  He  stooped  and  lifted 
the  child  from  her  arms,  saying:  "Don't  be 
frightened,  Martha,  we  '11  save  him  yet."  And 
she  no  more  doubted  his  word  than  she  would 
have  doubted  him  had  he  indeed  been  an  angel 
sent  straight  from  heaven  in  answer  to  her  prayer. 

By  two  o'clock  all  was  quiet  and  the  child  was 
sleeping  peacefully. 

"Come,  Martha,"  Ben  said,  putting  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder  as  she  sat  by  the  bedside,  still  clad 
in  the  moire"  antique.  "  Come,  do  go  to  bed,  the 
doctor  says  there  is  nothing  to  fear,  and  I  '11  sit 
up  with  Kddie.  You  won't  be  fit  for  the  ball 
to-morrow. ' ' 

"  The  ball !  the  ball ! "  she  repeated.  "  Oh, 
Ben  !" 

But  she  went  and  changed  the  ball  dress,  shud- 
dering as  she  listened  to  its  stiff  rattle,  and  then, 
in  a  soft  wrapper,  she  lay  down  upon  the  bed  be- 


Bens  Wife.  103 

side  her  boy.  All  night  she  listened  to  his  easy, 
regular  breathing,  and  all  night  long  there  was 
such  a  thanksgiving  in  her  heart  that  she  could 
not  sleep. 

The  next  day  the  child  was  quite  himself  again, 
trotting  about  the  house,  as  active  and  as  naughty 
as  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  He  told  his  sisters 
he  had  had  a  ' '  bad  dream. ' '  It  had,  indeed,  been 
a  bad  dream,  a  nightmare,  which  in  his  mother's 
eyes  threw  its  ominous  shadow  upon  all  that  had 
preceded  and  all  that  was  to  have  followed  it.  No 
amount  of  reasoning  could  induce  her  to  go  to  the 
ball,  nor  could  she  bring  herself  to  look  upon  that 
terrible  midnight  hour  as  anything  but  a  punish- 
ment and  a  warning. 

"  I  can't  help  what  you  say,  Ben,"  she  protested 
with  a  fervor  which  he  only  half  understood. 
"I  've  been  a  wicked,  thoughtless  woman.  If 
I  had  n't  had  my  heart  *  fixed  upon  the  things  of 
this  world,'  I  should  n't  have  been  parading  about 
in  that  moire  antique  dress,  talking  so  fast  that  I 
could  n't  hear  that  precious  child  gasping  for  the 
breath  of  life.  Think  of  it !  only  think  of  it !  A 
little  helpless  child  lying  at  death's  door,  while 
his  mother's  head  was  so  full  of  princes  and  balls 
that  she  had  forgotten  she  had  a  child  to  her 
name  !  No,  Ben,  I  would  n't  go  a  single  step.  It 
would  be  tempting  Providence.  And  besides," 
she  added,  giving  what  was,  after  all,  the  true 
reason,  "I  could  n't." 

"  And  Kdward?  "  urged  Ben,  whose  argumen- 


IO4  Pratt  Portraits. 

tative  powers  were  not  great.  "And  Edward? 
And  that  handsome  gown  ?  " 

"Edward  will  have  to  go  without  me.  And 
the  gown?"  She  paused  an  instant,  while  a 
familiar  look  came  into  the  ardent  face.  * '  Why, 
the  gown  will  make  over  nicely  for  one  of  the 
girls  when  they  are  grown  up.  You  know,  Ben, 
the  colors  I  choose  don't  go  out  of  fashion.  The 
Hazeldeans  all  have  good  taste. ' ' 

Ben  was  consoled  and  relieved.  Martha  might 
give  up  the  ball — though  he  did  n't  see  the  sense 
of  it, — but  she  had  not  changed  her  nature  yet ; 
she  was  still  a  Hazeldean. 

That  day  all  the  family  but  the  inconsolable 
Eddie  and  his  mother  went  to  town  to  Uncle 
Edward's  office,  to  see  the  procession  escort  the 
Prince  to  the  State-House.  They  came  home  with 
glowing  accounts  of  the  fine  display.  Even  Ben, 
the  heretic,  had  found  it  surprisingly  interesting 
to  be  looking  straight  down  out  of  his  own  repub- 
lican eyes  at  the  future  King  of  England,  and  he 
owned  as  much. 

"And  to  think,  Martha,  that  you  shouldn't 
see  the  Prince  after  all !  "  he  said  at  supper. 

"  Had  n't  you  better  change  your  mind,  and  go 
to  the  ball  ?  "  he  added,  coaxingly  ;  for  a  moral 
impossibility  is  a  difficult  thing  to  make  other 
people  understand. 

Martha  was  at  that  moment  engaged  in  the 
motherly  office  of  drying  the  fingers  of  her  young- 
est, who  had  been  surreptitiously  dabbling  them 


Bens  Wife.  105 

in  his  bowl  of  milk.  She  was  thinking  how  she 
adored  that  little,  chubby,  mischievous  paw,  and 
"the  things  of  this  world,"  including  the  Prince 
and  all  his  train,  seemed  to  her  very  remote  and 
indifferent. 

"No,  Ben,"  she  said,  "I  don't  care  anything 
about  the  ball." 

This  was  more  conclusive  than  the  ardor  with 
which  she  had  met  his  previous  appeals,  and  Ben 
gave  up  the  contest. 

Perhaps  the  only  person  in  the  family  who 
wholly  sympathized  with  Mrs.  Ben's  feeling 
was  her  sharp  little  mother-in-law.  When  news 
was  brought  her  of  Martha's  "  foolish  notion" 
of  not  going  to  the  ball,  just  because  Kddie  had 
had  the  croup  in  the  night — and  not  the  real 
croup  at  that,  her  informant  added, — Old  Lady 
Pratt  behaved  in  a  very  disappointing  manner. 
In  the  first  place,  she  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
rubbed  them  vigorously  with  her  folded  pocket- 
handkerchief  before  she  spoke  ;  a  thing  she  did, 
only  when  a  good  deal  moved ;  and  then  she 
said,  with  unusual  warmth,  "  Martha  's  a  good 
woman,  I  declare  for  't,  if  she  is  a  Hazeldean  !" 


V. 

A  YANKEE  QUIXOTE. 

NOW,   Jane  Bennett,  you  ain't   no   call  to 
fash  yourself  about  William,"  said  Old 
L,ady    Pratt,    looking    over    her    steel- 
bowed     spectacles     at     her    daughter. 
"William  's  got  too  good  a  head-piece  to  think 
jest  as  other  folks  do   about  every  thing,   and 
you  might  as  well  give  up,  fust  as  last,  expectin' 
him  to  be  cut  and  dried  in  his  opinions.  * ' 

Mrs.  Henry  Bennett,  of  Westville,  who  was 
paying  her  mother  a  visit,  never  let  conversation 
languish  for  lack  of  a  retort. 

"  I  don't  know  's  William  's  got  any  better  right 
to  his  opinions  than  other  folks  have  to  theirs. 
And  it 's  my  opinion  that  he  's  disgracing  the 
family  with  his  wrong-headed  talk. ' ' 

Old  I^ady  Pratt  bridled.  ' '  Ef  the  family  never 
gits  no  wuss  disgraced  than  that,  I  guess  there 
wont  be  no  great  cause  for  blushin' . ' ' 

*  *  Well,  Mother  ! ' '  snapped  Jane.    ' '  You  always 
did  take  William's  part.     I  don't  know  's  we  'd 
ought  to  expect  you  to  change  in  your  old  age  ! ' ' 
Old  I^ady  Pratt  was  not  fond  of  bickerings,  so 
she  let  this  thrust  pass  without  rebuke. 
106 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  107 

Jane  Bennett,  as  her  mother  had  made  a  point 
of  calling  her,  ever  since  she  persisted  in  marry- 
ing contrary  to  the  best  advice,  was  something 
of  a  thorn  in  the  old  lady's  flesh.  One  could  see 
that,  as  often  as  the  two  women  talked  together. 
Jane  was  superficially  almost  the  counterpart  of 
her  mother :  in  appearance,  small,  dark,  and  erect. 
But  in  her  the  decision  of  her  mother's  character 
took  on  the  form  of  obstinacy  ;  the  wholesome 
tartness  of  the  elder  woman's  speech,  had,  in  the 
younger,  degenerated  to  acidity.  Old  I^ady 
Pratt  was  distinguished  by  a  certain  liberal  mind- 
edness.  With  some  few  exceptions  she  was  open 
to  new  ideas  and  tolerant  of  innovations.  Jane, 
though  very  much  given  to  harboring  fixed  ideas, 
was  inclined,  when  once  her  mind  was  turned 
in  a  new  direction,  to  go  to  extremes.  When 
homoeopathy,  for  instance,  came  into  vogue,  she 
not  only  accepted  it  for  herself,  but  she  pushed 
her  son,  ignorant  and  untrained,  into  a  pretence  of 
the  practice  of  it.  The  wrong  thus  wrought  he 
discovered,  and  set  right  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  but 
Jane  Bennett  never  suspected  the  harm  she  had 
done.  She  had  not  a  keen  scent  for  her  own  mis- 
takes, and  her  self-complacence  was,  therefore, 
rarely  disturbed.  As  few  people  ever  argued  with 
her,  she  had  not  that  familiarity  with  opposition 
which  more  yielding  natures  early  acquire.  Hence 
she  found  it  impossible  to  reconcile  herself  to  the 
quiet  declaration  of  a  heresy  with  which  her 
brother  William  had  recently  startled  her. 


1 08  Pratt  Portraits. 

It  was  the  troublous  autumn  of  1860.  Abraham 
Lincoln's  election  had  struck  terror  to  the  hearts 
of  the  conservative  part  of  the  community. 
Many  a  man  who,  four  years  later,  was  to  regard 
that  plain  backwoodsman  as  the  hero  and  savior 
of  the  nation,  shrank  from  the  impending  conse- 
quences of  his  election.  William  Pratt  was  one 
of  the  conservatives. 

"The  South  will  secede,"  he  had  declared 
with  conviction,  when  the  election  was  discussed 
in  family  conclave. 

"  Then  we  '11  teach  them  a  lesson  !  "  said  his 
sister  Jane,  vindictively. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall,"  William  admitted,  "  but 
we  have  n't  any  business  to.  They  have  as  good 
a  right  to  go  out  of  the  Union  as  they  had  to 
come  into  it." 

For  a  moment  even  Jane  was  speechless.  Then 
she  said  with  withering  sarcasm  :  ' '  Perhaps  you 
think  there  's  nothing  wrong  about  slavery  ?  " 

<c  You  Ve  found  me  out,  Jane.  I  will  not  de- 
ceive you.  If  the  South  should  win,  I  propose 
to  buy  a  cat-o' -nine-tails  and  a  brace  of  blood- 
hounds, and  apply  for  a  place  as  overseer. ' ' 

And  that  was  all  Jane  could  get  out  of  her 
brother  on  the  subject.  His  flippant  jest  about 
slavery  could  not  be  taken  seriously,  but  at  least 
it  was  clear  that  he  believed  in  the  right  of  seces- 
sion, and  she  made  the  most  of  that. 

Jane  did  not  love  her  brother  William.  The 
two  were  "born  to  fight,"  as  their  placid,  easy- 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  109 

going  father— now  at  rest— had  long  ago  declared. 
Jane's  marriage  and  removal  to  another  town 
might  have  brought  about  a  truce,  had  she  not 
carried  with  her  the  rankling  memory  of  one  of 
William's  very  worst  and  most  reprehensible 
speeches.  When  all  the  family  were  up  in  arms 
about  her  predilection  for  Henry  Bennett,  Wil- 
liam had  said  to  his  mother — and  Jane  had  over- 
heard the  taunt:  "We  may  as  well  make  up 
our  minds  to  Jane,  Mother.  There  's  no  use  in 
trying  to  reason  with  her,  since  she  's  got  too  old 
to  be  spanked. ' ' 

It  was  certainly  a  most  indecorous  as  well  as 
disrespectful  remark,  and  one  which  Jane  had 
every  reason  to  resent.  How  could  she  be  ex- 
pected, after  that,  to  feel  a  proper  gratitude, 
when  the  offender  subsequently  loaned  her  hus- 
band fifteen  hundred  dollars,  without  interest 
and  with  but  small  hope  of  return  ?  What  if 
this  timely  help  did  enable  Henry  Bennett  to  set 
up  for  himself  in  his  trade  of  optician?  What 
money  obligations  could  atone  to  a  really  noble 
mind  for  a  personal  insult  ?  Henceforth  Jane 
nursed  her  grievance  and  hated  her  brother  to 
her  heart's  content. 

This  was  not  the  only  time  that  William  Pratt 
had  "  tied  a  knot  with  his  tongue  which  he  could 
not  untie  with  his  teeth."  He  was  not  a 
bad-tempered  man  himself,  but  he  was  often 
the  occasion  of  bad  temper  in  others.  He  had 
his  enemies,  men  who,  with  or  without  reason, 


HO  Pratt  Portraits. 

regarded  Mm  with  strong  antipathy,  who  hated 
the  way  he  held  his  head  and  disliked  the  fashion 
of  his  canes.  But  he  rarely  put  himself  out  for 
the  sake  of  conciliating  them.  His  own  path  had 
not  been  so  smooth  that  he  should  feel  the  neces- 
sity of  strewing  rose-leaves  under  the  feet  of  his 
fellow-creatures.  There  was,  perhaps,  more  ten- 
derness in  his  nature  than  he  would  have  been 
willing  to  acknowledge,  but  it  was  not  often 
called  out  now-a-days. 

While  yet  a  very  young  man,  he  had  loved 
and  married  Isabel  Allen,  a  woman  peculiarly 
suited  to  him.  There  had  been  no  disillusion- 
ment during  the  three  happy  years  that  followed 
— hardworking  years,  dearer  to  him  than  the 
hope  of  heaven.  When  a  malignant  disease 
robbed  him,  at  one  stroke,  of  his  wife  and  boy,  he 
felt  that  he  had  had  his  day,  and  he  doggedly  set 
himself  to  do  his  duty  in  an  arid  path.  Though 
an  unpopular  man  he  soon  earned  the  title  of 
"public-spirited  citizen."  People  learned  that 
while  an  appeal  to  his  feelings  was  not  apt  to  be 
successful,  an  appeal  to  his  reason,  and  to  his  sense 
of  justice  was  rarely  made  in  vain.  It  was  the 
latter  appeal  that  he  yielded  to  when  he  thought 
he  had  discovered  that  Edna  Brown  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him.  It  happened  about  five  years 
after  the  death  of  his  wife.  He  did  not  particu- 
larly admire  Kdna  Brown,  though  he  was  aware 
that  most  men  did,  and  he  would  greatly  have 
preferred  to  lead  his  own  life,  unhampered  by  new 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  in 

ties.  But  if  Edna,  who  never  concealed  what 
she  would  have  called  her  feelings,  thought  he 
could  make  her  happy,  he  would  not  let  his 
preferences  stand  in  the  way  of  her  trying  the 
experiment.  Having  married  her,  he  was  an 
excellent  husband.  Anything  within  reason  that 
she  wanted  she  might  have.  He  was  doing 
a  good  business  in  cotton,  going  to  his  office  in 
the  city  every  day,  after  the  manner  of  suburbans 
— and  in  the  course  of  time  he  built  a  very  fine 
house,  entirely  in  accordance  with  his  wife's 
somewhat  high-flying  notions.  Had  Edna  been 
exacting  in  the  matter  of  sentiment  he  might  not 
have  found  it  so  easy  to  content  her,  but  as  time 
went  on  it  gradually  dawned  upon  his  plain, 
masculine  intelligence,  that  perhaps,  after  all, 
Edna's  infatuation  had  not  been  purely  a  tribute 
to  his  personal  attractions.  Such  a  discovery  is 
not  altogether  pleasant  to  a  man,  even  when  the 
opposite  state  of  things  might  be  embarrassing. 
But  William  Pratt  took  it  philosophically.  He 
subjected  his  own  physiognomy,  mental  and 
physical,  to  an  impartial  scrutiny,  and  he  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been  a  fool  for  his 
pains.  That  somewhat  heavy  countenance,  with 
thick,  bristling  eyebrows  and  firm-set  mouth, 
was  not  calculated  to  attract  any  woman,  least  of 
all  an  Edna  Brown  ;  that  caustic  tongue  that  had 
estranged  so  many  friends  was  hardly  adapted  to 
wooing.  He  must  have  changed  a  good  deal,  he 
reflected  drearily,  since  last  he  looked  into  Isabel's 


112  Pratt  Portraits. 

eyes  and  read  their  adoration.  Poor  Edna  !  Per- 
haps after  all  he  had  cheated  her  out  of  what 
most  women  want.  And  from  that  time  forth 
there  was  an  added  touch  of  kindness  and  solici- 
tousness  in  his  dealings  with  her,  which  filled 
Edna  with  satisfaction,  as  showing  that  she  had 
kept  her  husband's  affection  longer  than  many 
women  do. 

There  were  three  cnildren,  Mary,  the  eldest, 
being  now  fourteen.  Their  father  was  fond  of  them 
all  in  his  undemonstrative  way,  though  he  loved 
them  with  an  unconscious  mental  reservation. 
Once  there  was  a  discussion  in  his  hearing  on 
the  subject  of  the  English  law  of  primogeniture. 
He  took  no  part  in  the  talk  himself,  but  his  mind 
reverted  to  the  two-year-old  boy  he  had  lost  so 
long  ago,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was, 
after  all,  something  peculiarly  strong  in  the  claims 
of  one's  first-born.  His  children,  in  their  turn, 
found  him  a  sufficiently  kind  and  indulgent  father, 
though  they  were  not  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
him.  At  Christmas-time  he  took  pains  to  find 
out  their  secret  wishes.  If  the  little  girls  some- 
times incurred  their  mother's  displeasure  by  tear- 
ing or  soiling  their  clothes  he  was  ready  to  inter- 
cede for  them.  If  Willie,  the  baby,  bumped  his 
head  and  roared  with  pain  and  temper,  it  was  his 
father  who  patiently  sopped  the  bruise  with  cold 
water  a*nd  told  him  not  to  cry.  Yet  William 
Pratt  was  not  one  of  those  fathers  whose  children 
cling  about  their  legs  and  stand  on  the  rounds  of 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  113 

their  chair,  and  the  little  ones  thought  nothing  of 
going  to  bed  without  bidding  him  good-night. 

With  his  nephews  and  nieces  the  case  was  not 
altogether  different.  They  had  a  certain  regard 
for  him,  largely  induced  by  the  transfer,  from  his 
pocket  to  theirs,  of  pennies,  dimes,  or  quarters, 
the  magnitude  of  the  offering  being  carefully 
adapted  to  the  age  of  the  recipient.  He  liked  to  see 
them  happy,  and  he  did  not  know  any  other  way 
of  making  them  so.  Yet  there  was  not  the  same 
spontaneity  in  their  affection  for  him,  as  in  their 
love  for  Uncle  Ben,  whose  small  coins  were  not 
more  migratory  in  their  disposition  than  Uncle 
William's,  but  who  had  the  gift  of  pinching  their 
cheeks  in  a  manner  to  rouse  their  deepest  feelings, 
and  who  could  tip  them  a  wink  worth  more  than 
money. 

William's  best  friend  was  his  mother,  but  even 
she  was  not  his  confidante.  She  had  been  very 
proud  of  his  conquest  of  Kdna  Brown,  the  belle  of 
Dunbridge,  and  she  took  his  happiness  for  granted. 
If  Old  I,ady  Pratt  had  a  favorite  child,  that  child 
was  William.  She  delighted  in  his  sharp  sayings 
almost  as  much  as  in  his  successful  career  and  his 
singular  uprightness.  In  fact  the  latter  sometimes 
cost  her  a  pang,  so  frequently  did  it  conflict  with 
her  son's  own  interests. 

Only  a  day  or  two  after  Jane's  visit  William 
came  in  to  see  his  mother  after  church,  as  was  his 
custom.  His  deaf  sister,  Betsy,  who  was  just  a 
little  afraid  of  William,  had  trotted  off,  nothing 


H4  Pratt  Portraits. 

loath,  to  help  about  the  dinner.  Old  Lady  Pratt 
having  accomplished  her  devotions  in  a  very 
thorough  and  satisfactory  manner,  had  now  put 
on  her  Sunday  cap  of  white  mull  and  her  gold 
spectacles,  and  felt  herself  at  liberty  to  consider 
worldly  things. 

"William,"  she  said  with  much  interest, 
"  ain't  cotton  goin'  up  pretty  fast  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  's  been  a  big  rise  this  month,  and 
it 's  likely  to  go  on  if  things  don't  quiet  down  at 
the  South." 

"  Anson  was  tellin'  me  you  Jd  got  a  large  stock 
on  hand.  You  'd  oughter  make  a  sight  o'  money. ' ' 

"  I  don't  expect  to  make  more  than  usual." 

"  Why  !  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  it  if  you 
try." 

"Isha'n't  have  to  try  so  very  hard.  I  shall 
sell  my  stock  at  a  fair  profit  and  no  more." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  '11  sell  below 
the  market-price  !  " 

"If  the  market-price  isn't  a  fair  one  I  don't 
propose  to  be  governed  by  it." 

Old  Lady  Pratt  was  quick  but  never  hasty. 
She  got  up  and  pulled  the  shade  down  in  one  of 
the  south  windows,  and  then  she  put  on  a  little 
knit  shawl,  a  contradictory  mode  of  procedure 
which  showed  that  her  mind  was  not  on  what  she 
was  doing.  After  that  she  resumed  her  straight- 
backed  chair  and  gave  utterance  to  her  views. 

"'Pears  to  me  you  're  wrong,  William,"  she 
said.  "  'T  ain't  as  though  you  sold  straight  to 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  115 

the  people.  They  ain't  going  to  git  the  good  of 
your  generosity.  You  '11  only  be  a  putting 
money  into  the  pockets  of  the  rich  manufactur- 
ers. That  's  plain  enough  to  see." 

"If  the  manufacturers  choose  to  pocket  what 
does  n't  belong  to  them,  that  is  n't  my  lookout. 
It 's  hard  times,  and  it  's  going  to  be  harder,  and 
I  don't  mean  to  get  rich  on  other  people's 
misfortunes. ' ' 

This  time  Old  L,ady  Pratt  sat  still  and  thought. 
Her  silence  was  particularly  impressive,  as  she 
had  not  even  her  week-day  knitting  to  bridge  it 
over.  At  last  she  said,  reflectively  :  "  I  'm  afraid 
you  ' re  all  wrong,  William.  ' T  ain'  t  the  way  folks 
do  business — though  I  ain't  sure  that  your  father 
wouldn't  have  acted  just  so.  And  I  declare  for 
't !  "  with  a  sudden  impulsiveness  very  unusual 
in  her.  "  Ef  I  was  you,  I  believe  I  'd  ruther\>z 
wrong  than  right !  " 

And  then  to  her  son's  unbounded  surprise  the 
self-contained  old  lady  came  over  and  gave  him  a 
hearty  kiss — a  thing  which  had  not  happened, 
except  on  state  occasions,  since  he  was  a  small 
boy. 

William  himself  had  no  misgivings.  He  was 
accustomed  to  thinking  things  out  for  himself, 
and  he  had  very  little  regard  for  "  consequences," 
that  bugbear  of  many  a  thinker.  It  used  to  seem 
to  him  as  though  certain  of  the  practical  men  of 
his  acquaintance  were  always  trying  to  hit  the 
bull's-eye  by  aiming  somewhere  else.  They  fired 


1 1 6  Pratt  Portraits. 

away  and  reloaded,  and  fired  away  again,  and 
collected  their  bag  of  game  entirely  regardless  of 
the  target,  which,  nevertheless,  most  of  them 
had  set  up  for  themselves  at  the  beginning  of  the 
match.  He  was  quite  ready  to  acknowledge  that 
he  missed  his  aim  as  often  as  not,  but  it  was  not 
for  the  sake  of  side  issues.  And  as  to  this  matter 
of  the  cotton,  he  did  not  care  to  go  into  the 
pros  and  cons  of  it.  There  was  but  one  thing 
to  be  considered,  and  that  was  an  innate  repug- 
nance to  making  money  out  of  other  people's 
misfortunes.  He  not  only  would  not  do  it  if  it 
was  wrong ;  he  would  have  hated  to  do  it  if  it 
had  been  ever  so  right. 

On  the  question  of  the  right  of  secession 
William  Pratt  had  thought  long  and  deeply, 
though  perhaps  a  little  confusedly.  He  lived  in 
a  very  loyal  community.  The  Union  was  some- 
thing which  most  of  his  neighbors  could  not 
reason  about.  It  was  something  sacred  and 
unassailable  as  the  moral  law.  If  he  tried  to 
argue  with  them  they  looked  at  him  askance, 
quite  as  though  he  had  undertaken  to  defend 
kidnapping  or  burglary.  It  is  possible  that 
the  opinion  which  he  had  arrived  at  was  partly 
the  result  of  a  natural  antagonism.  William 
Pratt  was  so  constituted  that  if  he  had  been 
told  every  day  of  his  life  that  a  quadruped  had 
necessarily  four  legs,  it  is  more  than  likely  that 
he  would  have  come  firmly  to  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  a  five-legged  beast  of  that  description. 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  117 

He  hated  to  be  talked  at,  and  was  capable  of  lov- 
ing his  opinions  as  he  loved  his  children,  merely 
because  they  were  his  own.  As  the  dreary 
anxious  winter  wore  away,  he  did  himself  more 
than  one  ill  turn  by  his  rough  handling  of  other 
people's  prejudices. 

One  Friday  evening  in  early  April  William 
went  with  his  wife  to  prayer-meeting.  He  was  a 
church  member,  but  to  Edna's  chagrin  he  had 
never  been  able  to  overcome  a  certain  reticence 
sufficiently  to  take  an  active  part  in  such  a  meet- 
ing. It  was  an  understood  thing  that  he  was  not 
to  be  called  upon,  and  being  thus  exempt  he  used 
regularly  to  attend  on  Friday  evenings.  It  was 
one  of  the  many  things  he  did  purely  from  a  sense 
of  duty. 

The  prayer-meetings  of  late  had  been  particu- 
larly fervent.  The  community  was  in  a  state  of 
unnatural  excitement.  The  sense  of  an  impend- 
ing crisis  brooded  heavily  upon  all  hearts,  and  in 
the  strong  tension  of  public  feeling  an  appeal  to 
divine  aid  was  the  natural  impulse  of  every  reli- 
gious man.  William  had  noticed  with  growing 
dissatisfaction  the  tendency  of  these  meetings. 
The  minister  himself,  who  was  a  strong  anti- 
slavery  man,  gave  the  tone  to  the  proceedings. 
It  seemed  to  William  that  a  prayer-meeting 
should  not  be  turned  into  an  expression  of  parti- 
san feeling.  On  this  occasion  he  listened  with 
ill-suppressed  indignation  to  the  prayers  which 
followed  each  other  in  quick  succession.  Nearly 


1 1 8  Pratt  Portraits. 

every  one  of  them  was  an  appeal  for  aid  for  the 
Northern  cause.  As  he  listened  he  was  reminded 
of  the  somewhat  personal  tone  Jane's  devotions 
had  once  taken  when  he  and  she  were  children  : 
"  Please  God,  make  Mother  box  Willie's  ears." 

When,  at  last,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  the 
brethren  openly  called  for  the  vengeance  of  the 
I^ord  to  be  visited  upon  the  offending  South, 
William  felt  that  his  turn  had  come.  To  the 
amazement  of  his  wife,  he  rose  deliberately  to  his 
feet,  and  gave  the  premonitory  cough  customary 
on  such  occasions.  The  vestry-room  was  but 
feebly  lighted  by  kerosene  lamps,  one  of  which 
was  smoking  badly.  In  the  dim,  uncertain  light 
he  could  just  see  the  furtive  glances  which  were 
turned  towards  him  as  the  people  in  the  sparsely 
filled  seats  covered  their  faces  with  their  hands. 
When  all  heads  were  bowed,  he  began  his  prayer 
in  a  voice  a  little  harsh  from  contending  emotions  : 
"  God  Almighty,  we  pray  Thy  mercy  on  our  land. 
We  pray  to  be  delivered  from  war.  We  pray  to 
be  delivered  from  disunion.  We  pray,  also,  to 
be  delivered  from  the  commission  of  injustice. 
We  pray  Thee,  O  God,  to  deliver  the  North 
from  the  calamities  which  we  dread.  And  we 
pray  Thee  to  deliver  our  sister,  the  South,  from 
the  vengeance  which  we  threaten.  Change 
Thou  the  hearts  of  the  North  and  of  the  South. 
Deliver  us  from  ourselves,  that  the  terrors  of  war 
and  of  disunion  may  be  averted.  Forgive  our 
partisanship.  Forgive  our  evil  passions.  I^ead 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  119 

us  in  the  ways  of  equity  and  peace.  Hear,  O 
God,  our  prayer,  not  for  our  sakes,  but  for  the 
sake  of  justice  and  humanity.  Amen." 

As  the  bowed  heads  were  lifted  at  the  close 
of  this  very  unconventional  prayer,  none  were 
turned  toward  the  speaker.  A  constraint  had 
fallen  upon  the  meeting.  Fortunately  the  time 
was  up,  and  it  was  not  necessary  to  prolong  the 
session.  The  minister  had  risen  to  announce  the 
closing  hymn,  when  there  was  a  sudden  sound 
of  cracking  glass,  and  the  broken  chimney  of  the 
smoking  lamp  fell  down  on  the  heads  and  knees 
of  the  people  below.  There  was  a  commotion  in 
that  corner  until  the  flaring  light  was  extin- 
guished, and  then  the  minister  gave  out  the 
closing  hymn :  *  *  I/)rd,  dismiss  us  with  Thy 
blessing."  The  inharmonious  voices  of  the  con- 
gregation rose  and  fell  in  lagging  cadence  upon 
the  well-known  tune,  and  then  "the  peace  of 
God,  which  passeth  understanding, ' '  was  invoked 
upon  the  heads  of  the  belligerent  meeting,  and 
William  Pratt  found  himself  at  liberty  to  go  out 
into  the  pure  night  air,  beneath  those  clear 
burning  lights  of  heaven,  that  neither  smoke 
nor  flare. 

Edna  followed  him  dejectedly.  Why  had  she 
ever  wished  him  to  "take  part"  ?  She  might 
have  known  he  could  not  do  it  like  other  people. 
They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  distance,  till 
at  last  she  felt  that  forbearance  was  a  weakness. 
Edna  not  infrequently  found  it  her  duty  to  remon- 


1 20  Pratt  Portraits. 

strate  with  her  husband,  though  her  reproofs 
were  always  couched  in  the  most  considerate 
language. 

"  I  am  almost  sorry  you  made  that  prayer, 
dear,"  she  began,  gently.  She  usually  called 
him  "  dear ' '  when  she  was  not  pleased  with  him. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  I  'm  afraid  it  gave  offence." 

" To  whom?" 

"  Why,  to  all  the  people." 

"It  was  addressed  to  the  Almighty,"  he  said 
curtly,  and  after  that  he  said  no  more  about  it. 

But  as  he  met  his  fellow-Christians  in  the  week 
that  followed  he  noticed  a  marked  coolness  in 
their  demeanor  toward  himself,  and  he  rejoiced 
more  and  more  that  he  had  taken  a  stand. 

Early  in  the  following  week  his  brother  Ben 
looked  in  on  him  at  his  office — jovial,  sweet- 
tempered  Ben,  who  hated  a  row. 

"How  are  you,  Bill?"  said  he.  "Got  time 
for  a  smoke?"  Ben  was  the  only  person  who 
ever  thought  of  calling  him  Bill. 

They  were  soon  established  with  their  cigars, 
their  feet  on  the  office  stove,  Ben's  chair  tilted 
back  at  a  genial  angle.  He  presently  came  to 
the  point. 

' '  I/)ok  here,  Bill.  What  put  it  into  your  head 
to  stir  up  the  meeting  with  a  long  pole  last 
Friday  evening?  Anson  is  in  a  great  state  of 
mind.  He  says  all  the  old  Tabbies  in  town  are 
by  the  ears  about  it" 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  121 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  long  pole," 
said  William,  gruffly  ;  '  *  I  asked  the  I/)rd  to  bless 
the  North  and  the  South  and  to  keep  them  from 
laying  hands  on  each  other." 

"Not  much  use  in  that,"  Ben  declared. 
"  There  's  bound  to  be  a  war." 

"Think  so ?    I  'm  afraid  you  're  right." 

For  a  time  they  puffed  on  in  silence.  Then 
William  asked : 

"  What  shall  you  do  about  it  if  there  is  one  ?  " 

"Do  about  it?" 

"  Yes,  do  about  it.     Shall  you  fight  ?  " 

"I?  Fight?  Good  gracious  no!  I'm  no 
fighting  man.  I  could  n't  stick  a  bayonet  into  a 
sheep  to  save  my  soul." 

"There's  a  good  deal  that's  disagreeable 
about  war,"  William  answered  dryly.  "I,  for 
one,  would  rather  let  the  South  go  about  their 
business." 

"  We  can't  do  that,"  said  Ben,  with  conviction. 
"We  've  got  the  right  on  our  side,  and  we  're 
bound  to  maintain  it." 

'  *  It  all  seems  perfectly  clear  to  you,  apparently. ' ' 

"  Yes.  I  can't  see  that  the  thing  's  got  two 
sides.  But, ' '  brightening,  * '  do  you  know,  Bill, 
it 's  very  lucky  that  you  don't  look  at  it  as  the 
rest  of  us  do,  for  if  you  did,  it  would  be  just  like 
you  to  go  to  the  war  yourself.  You  'd  be  the 
very  fellow  to  go  down  there  and  get  shot." 

1 '  It  will  certainly  be  just  like  a  good  many 
poor  fellows  to  do  it.  Fellows,"  William  added 


122  Pratt  Portraits. 

gloomily,  * '  that  have  more  to  lose  than  some 
of  us." 

"  Nobody  could  have  much  more  to  lose  than 
you  and  I,  Bill,  with  our  wives  and  children." 

William  did  not  respond  immediately,  but  then 
he  was  not  a  particularly  responsive  man.  At 
last  he  said:  "There's  one  thing  you  and  I 
would  n't  have  to  leave  behind  to  keep  our  wives 
and  children  company." 

"  What's  that?" 

"Beggary." 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause. 

"Well,  Bill,"  said  Ben,  at  last,  as  he  finished 
his  cigar  and  turned  to  depart,  "  I  think  you  've 
got  hold  of  this  thing  by  the  wrong  end,  but  your 
heart 's  all  right,  I  '11  be  bound  !  " 

"Rubbish!"  William  growled.  "Hearts 
don't  count.  It  's  heads  we  want  and  they  're 
mighty  scarce  just  now." 

But  all  this  was  only  the  prelude.  Men  talked, 
and  argued,  and  discussed  the  war,  and  knew 
very  little  of  what  they  were  talking  about. 
War  is  a  grim  word,  but,  after  all,  what  is  a  word, 
even  the  grimmest  ? 

The  terrible  awakening  which  swept  over  the 
land  when  the  thunder  of  the  first  gun  boomed 
across  the  waters  in  Charleston  Harbor  was  almost 
as  astounding,  almost  as  appalling,  as  though 
the  name  of  war  had  not  been  spoken  till  that 
day.  It  was  on  Saturday,  the. 1 3th  of  April,  that 
the  echoes  of  that  gun  reached  the  North. 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  123 

William  Pratt,  driving  into  town  across  the 
long  bridge,  saw  hundreds  of  flags  floating  over 
the  city.  Their  brave  colors  fluttering  on  the 
breeze  seemed  to  speak  of  cheerful  things,  and 
for  a  moment  the  weight  of  anxiety  and  fore- 
boding was  lifted  from  his  heart.  But  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city  he  was  undeceived.  News- 
boys were  bawling  the  bad  tidings  at  the  top  of 
their  voices,  men  were  standing  in  knots  talking 
vociferously,  and  gesticulating  in  a  manner 
unusual  in  an  American  crowd. 

Pratt  reined  in  his  horse  and  bought  a  paper. 
He  glanced  at  it,  mechanically  guiding  his  horse 
through  the  crowded  streets.  The  headings  were 
enough. 

"WAR    BEGUN!" 
SOUTH  STRIKES  THE  FIRST  Bw>w ! " 


"  FORT  MOUI/TRIE  OPENS  FIRE  ON  FORT  SUMTER 

AT  FOUR  O'CLOCK,    FRIDAY   MORNING." 

He  let  the  paper  slip  to  his  feet,  and  took  a  firm 
hold  of  the  reins,  to  steady  himself,  not  the  horse. 

The  air  seemed  full  of  flying  flags.  Their 
bright  colors  fluttered  through  his  thoughts  in 
a  strange,  bewildering  way.  All  the  world  was 
talking  and  gesticulating.  He  did  not  want  to 
talk,  he  did  not  want  to  hear  what  was  said. 
He  knew  enough.  Too  much.  It  was  the  worst. 
Nothing  could  mitigate  that.  He  turned  his 


1 24  Pratt  Portraits. 

horse's  head  away  from  the  centre  of  the  town, 
out  toward  the  open  country. 

For  three  days  William  Pratt  bore  himself  like 
a  man  indifferent  to  the  great  events  that  mastered 
every  heart.  He  lived  apparently  unmoved  by 
the  tremendous  emotions  that  surged  about  him. 
His  face  was  set  and  hard.  His  eye  was  dull. 
His  neighbors,  when  they  saw  him  pass,  murmured 
to  one  another  the  fatal  word,  "  Secesh,"  fancying 
that  they  had  the  key  to  that  stony  indifference. 
And  all  the  while  his  mind  was  in  a  tumult. 

It  was  an  inner  vision  rather  than  a  thought 
that  occupied  him.  The  singular,  irresistible 
power  of  a  symbol  had  laid  hold  upon  him.  It 
was  not  the  country  he  thought  of,  not  the  cause. 
It  was  the  flag,  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  that  he  had 
loved  unconsciously  for  forty  years,  that  riveted 
his  mind.  He  saw  them  floating  over  Fort  Sum- 
ter,  brave  and  proud  as  they  had  floated  over  the 
city  when  he  drove  across  the  bridge  on  that 
Saturday  morning.  He  saw  them  lowered  at  the 
bidding  of  a  hostile  gun. 

For  on  Sunday  news  came  of  the  surrender  of 
the  fort.  The  announcement  was  made  from  the 
pulpit.  Strong  men  were  shaken  with  sobs. 
Women's  faces  blanched.  A  little  child  in  the 
pew  in  front  of  him  pulled  at  his  father's  hand 
which  hid  his  father's  face,  saying  :  "  Don't  ee 
cry,  Papa."  All  day  long  that  childish  voice 
haunted  William  in  meaningless  reiteration.  Yet 
he  sat  with  tearless  eyes  and  firm-set  lips,  seem- 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  125 

ingly  shut  out  alike  from  the  terror  and  the 
exaltation  of  the  hour. 

When  the  service  was  ended,  and  he  stepped 
out  into  the  sunshine,  his  wife  and  children  stayed 
behind  while  he  walked  home  alone. 

On  Tuesday  William  Pratt  did  a  startlingly 
inconsistent  thing.  He  deliberately  enrolled  his 
name  among  the  defenders  of  that  cause  about 
which  he  had  been  so  stubbornly  sceptical. 

When  he  came  home  from  the  recruiting  office 
in  the  afternoon,  he  found  his  brother  Ben  sitting 
with  his  wife.  It  was  just  at  dusk  and  the  gas 
had  not  yet  been  lighted.  William  came  in  with 
a  muttered  greeting  and  took  his  seat  in  a  large 
arm-chair  where  he  leaned  back  heavily. 

"Well,  Ben,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  glad  to  find  you 
here.  I  suppose  you  '  11  be  surprised  to  know  that 
I've  enlisted." 

"Enlisted!" 

"Enlisted!" 

Edna's  voice  was  sharp  and  high,  Ben's  low 
with  consternation.  There  was  a  dead  silence 
before  Ben  spoke  again  with  a  somewhat 
unsteady  accent. 

"Why,  Bill,"  he  said,  "I  don't  understand. 
I  thought  you  did  n't  believe  in  the  cause." 

"You  always  sided  with  the  South!"  Edna 
urged,  with  feeble  remonstrance. 

"  That  was  before  they  fired  on  the  flag,"  her 
husband  answered,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  she  had 
never  heard  before. 


126  Pratt  Portraits. 

Ben  could  not  argue,  but  he  plead,  and  Edna 
wept  and  lamented,  and  William  sat  there  feeling 
as  solitary  in  his  newly  awakened  loyalty  as  he 
had  found  himself  in  the  days  of  his  heresy,  till 
presently  a  slight  figure  in  a  bright  plaid  frock 
stole  to  his  side,  and  a  soft  little  hand  was  slipped 
within  his  own.  It  was  his  daughter  Mary,  who 
had  sat  by  unobserved,  and  came  to  offer  her  mite 
of  sympathy.  He  clasped  the  little  hand  tightly, 
and  Mary  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  all  through 
the  long  discussion  which  followed. 

At  last  Ben  left  them,  and  Edna  went  to  dry 
her  tears  in  her  own  room,  and  when  they  were 
alone  together  Mary  said,  in  a  very  solemn  voice : 
"  Father,  I  wish  I  were  a  man  so  that  I  could  go 
and  fight  for  my  country." 

It  had  grown  quite  dark  now.  He  put  his 
arm  about  his  little  daughter  and  drew  her  down 
upon  his  knee,  and  then  he  said  rather  huskily  : 
"  Praise  God  that  you  are  not  a  man,  Mary.  You 
might  have  to  die  for  your  country.'* 

"  I  think  that  would  be  better  than  living, "  she 
answered,  with  the  simple,  straightforward  con- 
viction of  a  child. 

There  was  a  strange,  new  ache  in  William 
Pratt' s  heart,  as  he  pressed  the  hot  little  cheek 
against  his  own.  The  flag  no  longer  filled  the 
whole  horizon  of  his  thoughts. 

Happily  for  him,  there  was  too  much  business 
to  be  got  through  in  the  short  interval  before  he 
should  join  his  regiment  in  camp,  to  leave  much 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  127 

time  for  reflection  or  discussion.  The  final  wind- 
ing up  of  his  affairs  had  to  be  in  a  great  measure 
entrusted  to  his  brother  Ben,  and  it  was  at  this 
time  that  Ben  first  learned  that  William  had  not 
taken  advantage  of  the  rise  in  cotton  for  his  own 
enrichment.  Ben  was  an  honest  man,  but  this 
was  beyond  him. 

"  Quixotic  ! "  he  growled.  "  Perfectly  quixotic ! 
Bill,"  he  cried  in  desperation,  "  you  need  a  guar- 
dian." 

"Do  I?"  said  William. 

They  were  standing  over  the  safe  in  his  ofiice, 
and  as  William  looked  down  upon  his  brother  a 
faint  gleam  of  amusement  came  into  his  grave 
eyes.  He  was  taller  by  half  a  head  than  Ben, 
and  though  the  difference  in  their  age  was  not 
great,  he  looked  much  the  elder.  With  his  stern, 
rugged  countenance  and  strong  frame,  he  pre- 
sented a  marked  contrast  to  his  blue-eyed,  good- 
humored  junior,  whose  short  figure  was  getting 
stout  but  would  never  be  powerful. 

"  Do  I  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"Yes,  Bill!  you  do  !  First  you  throw  away 
your  luck  and  then  you  do  your  best  to  throw 
away  your  life.  I  'm  blessed  if  I  can  see  what 
right  you  have  to  cut  into  us  all  in  this  way, 
especially  for  a  cause  you  never  stood  up  for 
before." 

"  Queer  that  I  can't  make  you  understand," 
said  William,  with  a  contraction  of  the  brows,  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  think  out  some  elabo- 


128  Pratt  Portraits. 

rate  explanation  of  a  very  simple  problem.  "  I 
suppose  you  can  imagine  the  case  of  mother,  for 
instance,  getting  into  a  difference  of  opinion  with 
a  neighbor,  and  your  admitting  that  he  was  as 
much  in  the  right  as  she.  But  if  he  were  to  lift 
his  hand  against  her,  I  reckon  you  would  n't 
think  twice  before  you  knocked  him  down." 

The  trouble  in  Ben's  face  deepened.  The  allu- 
sion to  his  mother  only  made  things  worse.  The 
old  lady  had  "  plenty  of  grit,"  but  her  eyes  were 
so  much  brighter  than  usual  when  he  called  to 
see  her  that  morning  that  he  had  felt  anxious. 
She  was  an  old  woman  and  ought  not  to  be  called 
upon  for  the  exercise  of  heroism. 

William  himself  was  too  preoccupied  to  be  very 
much  alive  to  other  people's  feelings.  Among  all 
the  confused  experiences  of  that  time  of  prepara- 
tion and  departure  there  was  only  one  moment 
that  stood  out  clearly  in  his  mind,  that  dwelt  with 
him  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  when  he  lay  awake 
under  the  stars  in  the  home  camp,  and  later  when 
he  came  into  close  quarters  with  the  realities  of 
war. 

The  apologetic  embarrassment  of  his  discom- 
fited accusers  made  very  little  impression  upon 
him,  while  even  as  to  his  wife  herself,  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  just  what  she  did  and  said  at 
the  last.  He  could  recall  hardly  anything  about 
his  parting  with  his  brothers  and  sisters.  He  re- 
membered the  grip  of  the  dry  and  wrinkled  hand 
of  age,  when  he  kissed  his  mother,  and  that  her 


A  Yankee  Quixote.  129 

brave  old  lips  trembled  slightly  as  they  touched 
his.  But  whether  she  had  said  the  word  good- 
bye or  had  failed  to  say  it  he  did  not  know. 

In  his  breast  pocket  was  a  neat  little  pen- 
wiper, the  covering  worked  in  red,  white,  and 
blue  worsteds  in  the  shape  of  a  flag,  and  in  yellow 
silk  were  done  "  all  the  stars  for  all  the  States," 
little  Mary  had  said  when  she  gave  it  to  him. 
"  And  you  must  use  it,  Father,  when  you  write  to 
us,  and  when  you  bring  it  home  again  it  will  have 
come  true,  and  all  the  States  will  be  in  the  Union, 
just  as  they  used  to  be." 

He  had  taken  the  child's  face  between  his  two 
large  hands,  and  looked  down  with  infinite  wist- 
fulness  into  the  clear  young  eyes. 

11  Mary,"  he  had  said,  "  I  wish  you  and  I  had 
known  each  other  a  little  better." 

"  Never  mind,  Father,"  the  girlish  treble 
sounded  sweet  and  true  as  a  bell.  "When  we 
meet  again  we  shall  be  great  friends." 

Then  he  had  kissed  her  forehead  and  held  hei 
very  close,  and  she  had  stroked  the  front  of  his 
coat,  the  Union  coat  that  he  was  to  do  his  fighting 
in,  until  her  mother  came  and  claimed  her  right 
to  weep  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  thought  of  his  clear-eyed,  high-hearted  little 
daughter,  as  he  sat  among  the  men  of  his  com- 
pany on  the  eve  of  the  first  great  disaster  of  Bull 
Run  and  again  as  he  went  into  action  the  next  day. 

The  bullet  that  pierced  his  heart  passed  first 
through  the  little  worsted  flag,  but  it  left  the  field 


130  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  stars  unbroken.  And  the  little  flag  was  buried 
with  him  in  Southern  soil,  a  mute  and  hidden 
witness  to  the  better  time  to  come. 

When  that  good  time  had  come,  when  the 
humble  testimony  of  those  tiny  golden  stars  had 
been  fulfilled,  the  little  Mary  had  grown  to  be  a 
tall  young  woman,  rather  mature  and  thoughtful 
for  her  years.  Many  girlish  fancies  had  passed 
away,  many  hard  realities  had  come  to  take  their 
place.  But  no  ungentle  years  could  rob  her  of 
her  best  heritage,  her  father's  memory,  nor  did 
she  ever  lose  faith  in  her  parting  words  to  him  : 
"When  we  meet  again  we  shall  be  great  friends." 


WILLIAM 


VL 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  QUACK. 

"     A     ND  how  's  Anson  gittin'  along?"  asked 

7\       Miss  Grig,  the  proprietor  of  the  thread- 

1    ^     and-needle  store  next  door,  as  she  payed 

for  the  new  glass    in    her  spectacles. 

"  I  *ve  hear'n  tell  Js  how  he  was  makin'  quite  a 

success  of  his  doctorin'." 

Mr.  Bennett's  face  dropped  its  business  expres- 
sion and  took  on  a  genial  look  of  complacence. 

"Oh,  Anson!  He  's  doin'  a  great  business. 
He  's  cuttin'  out  the  allopaths  right  an'  left. 
Reglars,  they  call  themselves,  and  my  wife  says 
that 's  all  right,  for  most  on  'em  's  reglar  old 
Betties  !  Why,  Anson  's  got  the  best  part  of  the 
practice  in  that  country  for  miles  round  !  " 

"Well !  It  doos  beat  all,  I  must  say,  that  a 
young  man  brought  up  to  the  spectacle  trade 
should  suddenly  perk  up  and  know  so  much  'bout 
folks'  insides.  I  s'pose  now,  homepathic  means 
home-made  or  somethin'  of  the  kind. ' ' 

"Like  's  not,"  replied  the  proud  father.     "  I 
always  said  the  doctors  round  here  might  learn  a 
thing  or  two  of  Mis'  Bennett.    She  comes  of  an 
131 


1 3  2  Pratt  Portraits. 

oncommon  smart  family,  the  Pratts  of  Dunbridge, 
and  she  was  about  the  smartest  of  the  lot.  It  's 
been  a  real  eddication  to  Anson  to  be  the  son  of 
such  a  woman.'* 

Then  the  worthy  man  grew  more  expansive, 
and  leaning  over  the  counter  with  a  confidential 
air  he  added:  "Do  you  know,  Miss  Grig — (I 
don't  want  to  brag,  but  this  is  betwixt  you  and 
me) — that  boy 's  used  up  one  hoss  a' ready  !  " 

A  look  of  horror  came  into  the  excitable  coun- 
tenance of  Miss  Grig.  She  gazed  into  Mr. 
Bennett's  face  through  her  neatly  repaired  glasses 
and  gasped : 

"What!    For/fl&/" 

While  Mr.  Bennett  was  explaining  to  his  old 
friend,  that  the  "  hoss  "  had  been  used  up  by  too 
much  travel  on  the  long  country  roads,  young 
Bennett  was  driving  the  first  victim's  successor, 
at  an  easy  pace  along  the  East  Burnham  turn- 
pike. 

It  was  one  of  those  soft  days  in  early  May, 
when  the  apple-blossoms  are  in  their  glory,  and 
the  balmy  air  quickens  the  heart  with  gladness. 
Anson  Bennett's  heart  was  beating  to  the  tune 
of  hope  and  joy.  He  felt  to  his  finger-tips,  the 
delicious  spring  awakening,  and  pleasant  thoughts 
sprang  up  in  his  mind,  as  naturally  as  early  but- 
tercups from  the  sod. 

Now  this  young  man,  with  his  well-favored,  not 
unintelligent  face,  and  an  air  of  candor  and  good- 
will which  went  far  to  win  the  country  people's 


A  New  England  Quack.  133 

confidence,  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  an 
impostor.  Yet  impostor  that  he  was,  he  was  first 
of  all  his  own  dupe.  Homoeopathy  had  but  lately 
come  into  vogue,  and  the  apparent  simplicity  of  its 
principles  had  made  it,  or  an  unworthy  travesty 
of  it,  instantly  popular.  Especially  among  New 
England  housewives,  who  like  to  feel  themselves 
equal  to  every  emergency,  the  little  wooden  cases 
of  bottles  filled  with  palatable  remedies  for  every 
ill,  were  welcome  possessions. 

"  Why,"  Anson's  mother  had  said,  "  it 's  just 
like  the  way  Luther  gave  the  Bible  to  the  people ! 
Think  how  long  the  priests  had  kept  the  religious 
doctorin'  all  to  themselves." 

The  good  woman  had  an  ill-defined  notion  that 
doctrine  and  doctorin'  had  more  similarity  than 
that  of  mere  sound.  "  I  tell  you,  it 's  jest  the 
same  with  the  doctors.  It  's  nothing  but  self- 
glorification  that 's  always  made  'em  so  secret 
about  their  learnin'.  The  Lord  sets  'em  a  better 
example  than  that.  The  Lord  promises  to  help 
folks  that  help  themselves.  But  you  'd  think,  to 
hear  the  allopaths  talk,  that  a  woman  was  com- 
mitting some  awful  crime,  when  she  gave  a  little 
nux  vomica  to  a  child  that 's  got  the  snuffles, 
instead  of  running  up  a  doctor's  bill  and  being 
made  to  torture  the  poor  little  thing  with  nasty- 
tasting  drugs." 

Jane  Bennett  was,  as  her  simple-minded  hus- 
band took  pride  in  remembering,  a  Pratt  of 
Dunbridge,  and  she  had  inherited  something  of 


1 34  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  "  faculty,"  which  has  always  distinguished 
that  highly  respectable  family. 

Marrying  at  a  very  early  age — in  opposition, 
let  it  be  whispered  in  confidence,  to  her  mother's 
wishes — and  removing  to  the  small  manufacturing 
town  where  her  husband  pursued  his  calling, 
Jane  Pratt  had  taken  a  step  downward  in  the 
social  scale.  The  ignorance  which  is  the  prerog- 
ative of  sweet  seventeen,  had  not  been  modified 
by  contact  with  her  betters,  or  even  with  her 
equals,  and  her  self-confidence — sometimes  called 
pigheadedness — had  received  no  check.  Hence 
she  never  suspected  the  undeniable  fact  that  she 
was  as  ignorant  of  the  true  science  of  homoeopathy 
as  she  was  of  the  higher  mathematics.  And  in 
spite  of  ignorance  and  pigheadedness,  Jane  Ben- 
nett was  very  successful  with  her  nux  vomica  and 
belladonna  and  what  not,  and  she  had  little 
difficulty  in  persuading  her  son  of  the  soundness 
of  her  views.  Anson  had  received  much  practical 
benefit  from  his  mother's  treatment  of  the  small 
ills  which  had  assailed  him  from  time  to  time  ;  her 
methods  seemed  to  him  rational,  her  arguments 
just.  When  she  finally  gave  him  a  little  manual 
of  ' '  symptoms, ' '  and  told  him  it  would  teach 
him  homoeopathy,  there  appeared,  to  his  mind 
to  be  a  great  light  thrown  upon  a  hitherto  dark 
and  tortuous  province  of  human  experience.  He 
was  very  young,  very  ignorant  and  very  ambitious, 
and  he  was  but  too  ready  to  believe  that  those 
little  sugar-coated  pills  were  the  last  and  most 


A  New  England  Quack.  135 

comprehensive  outcome  of  medical  science,  and 
that  he,  with  the  aid  of  his  manual,  and  a  fair 
stock  of  natural  "  gumption,"  was  as  well  fitted 
as  another  to  administer  them  j  udiciously .  Eight 
months'  practice  on  whooping-cough  and  measles, 
in  a  healthy  country  neighborhood,  had  only 
confirmed  him  in  his  self-confidence,  and  he  had 
almost  come  to  feel  as  though  it  were  his  own 
diagnosis  (a  word,  by  the  way,  which  he  valued 
highly)  which  fixed  the  nature  of  the  disease  to 
be  treated. 

He  was  now  on  his  way  to  a  patient — a  me- 
chanic living  on  the  outskirts  of  the  neighboring 
town  of  Bast  Burnham — whose  case  he  had  pro- 
nounced to  be  a  severe  catarrhal  cold,  and  had 
for  some  days  past  been  treating  accordingly. 
His  heart  swelled  within  him  as  he  thought  of  his 
past  success  and  future  prospects,  and  all  his 
meditations  were  tinged  with  the  spring  sun- 
shine. 

"  What  a  heavenly-minded  day  this  is,"  he  said 
to  himself ;  * '  and  how  pleasant  it  is  to  be  driv- 
ing along  through  this  pretty  country  !  To  think 
that  I  might  have  spent  all  my  days  behind 
Father's  counter,  waiting  on  fussy  old  ladies,  if  I 
had  n't  turned  doctor  !  " 

His  thoughts  made  a  pause,  while  a  picture 
rose  before  his  mental  vision. 

"  I  wonder  if  Alice  would  n't  like  to  be  sitting 
side  o'  me,  and  driving  along  among  the  apple- 
blossoms  ! ' ' 


136  Pratt  Portraits. 

The  young  man  glanced  wistfully  at  the  empty 
seat  beside  him,  and  then  at  the  blossoming  trees 
on  either  hand. 

"She  'd  go  well  with  the  apple  -  blossoms. 
There  's  so  much  pink  and  white  about  her,  and 
she  's  so  sweet." 

Then  he  fell  into  a  wordless  reverie,  while  his 
horse  ambled  lazily  on.  The  dreamy  stretches  of 
pasture  land,  the  soft  spring  air,  and  the  fragrant 
apple-blossoms  were  all  blended  in  his  happy 
mood  ;  but  the  keynote  of  this  delicate  harmony 
was  the  pretty  girlish  face  he  looked  upon  with 
the  "inward  eye," — pink  and  white  and  very 
sweet,  but  with  a  grace  his  fancy  added,  the 
grace  of  shy  responsiveness.  For  the  sweet  face 
had  not  yet  softened  for  him  ;  the  clear  eyes  had 
not  yet  met  his  with  answering  affection.  It  was 
only  that  on  such  a  day  as  this  everything 
seemed  possible  to  his  young  ambition. 

"  She  's  proud,  and  she  has  a  good  right  to  be," 
he  admitted  to  himself.  "  'T  is  n't  only  that  her 
father  's  so  well  off  and  has  been  in  the  legisla- 
ture. She  'd  be  just  the  same  if  her  folks  were 
nobodies.  A  girl  like  her,"  he  told  himself  to- 
day for  the  hundredth  time,  "could  n't  be  ex- 
pected to  marry  a  man  of  no  account.  It  stands 
to  reason  she  'd  look  high.  But  a  doctor  with 
such  a  practice  as  mine,  is  a  different  matter." 

An  attractive  smile  lit  up  his  face.  ' '  I  know  I 
could  make  her  happy.  There  is  n't  anything  I 
would  n't  do  for  her.  She  should  have  as  nice 


A  New  England  Quack.          137 

a  house  as  any  lady  hereabouts,  and  lots  of 
flowers  in  her  garden.  I  s'pose  she  likes  flow- 
ers. Seems  as  though  a  girl  like  her  must  feel 
sort  of  at  home  among  them.  I  guess  I  '11 
send  her  a  bunch  next  time  I  go  home."  He 
looked  again  at  the  apple-trees,  whose  blossom- 
ing branches  hung  over  the  stone  wall  on  either 
side  of  the  road. 

"I'd  like  to  send  her  a  lot  of  apple-blossoms 
now,"  he  thought,  "but  I  s'pose  that  would  n't 
be  much  of  a  compliment;  they  're  so  plenty. 
They  do  look  just  like  her  though." 

A  stray  petal  floated  through  the  still  air  and 
dropped  upon  his  knee.  He  picked  it  up  and 
regarded  it  thoughtfully. 

"Pity  so  many  of  them  come  to  nothing," 
he  mused.  "  I  wonder  why  things  should  be 
wasted  so." 

He  often  thought  of  the  fragile  waif,  in  after 
years,  when  he  remembered  that  day  of  blos- 
soming of  all  sweet  things  in  his  own  thoughts. 

Dr.  Bennett  stopped  his  horse  before  a  bare- 
looking  house,  dropped  the  weight  on  the  ground 
with  a  professional  air,  and  taking  his  medicine 
case  from  the  chaise,  walked  up  the  path.  It 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, and  got  himself  back  to  real  life.  On 
the  threshold  he  paused  a  moment  and  looked 
lingeringly  upon  the  pleasant  landscape,  as 
though  some  subtle  premonition  had  told  him 
that  he  was  turning  his  back  for  ever  upon  a 


1 3  8  Pratt  Portraits. 

sweet  spring  world.  Then  he  lifted  the  latch 
and  entered  into  the  chill  shadow  of  sordid  cares. 

A  woman  met  him  in  the  little  dark  entry- 
way.  She  was  a  young,  timid-looking  creature, 
and  little  children  were  clinging  to  her  skirts. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  unnaturally 
bright.  Anson  thought  he  had  never  before 
noticed  how  pretty  she  was,  and,  stooping  to  pat 
the  cheek  of  one  of  the  children,  he  said, 
cheerily  : 

"Well,  Mrs.  Bllery,  I  hope  your  husband  is 
doing  well  to-day." 

"  O  Doctor  !  "  she  answered,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  strained  and  weak,  "I  was  just  going 
to  send  after  you.  He  's  been  that  bad  all  day, 
that  I  was  afraid  to  wait  till  you  'd  come." 

A  queer  shock  went  through  Anson,  as  he  drew 
himself  up  and  looked  again  into  her  face ;  but 
he  recovered  himself  instantly,  and  saying, 
"  I  'm  sorry  you  've  been  anxious,  but  I  guess 
we  shall  have  him  all  right  again  pretty  soon, ' '  he 
passed  into  the  sick-room  with  her.  The  children 
remained  huddled  together  in  the  dark  entry. 

The  sick-room  was  on  the  north  side  of  the 
house,  and  seemed  chilly  and  comfortless.  The 
patient  lay  with  closed  eyes  on  the  bed.  A 
strange,  bluish  pallor  overspread  his  face,  and 
he  was  breathing  hard  and  painfully.  Dr.  Ben- 
nett took  in  his  the  hand  that  lay  upon  the  calico 
counterpane.  It  was  cold  and  clammy,  and  again 
that  strange  shock  went  through  him. 


A  New  England  Quack.          1 39 

At  his  touch  the  patient  opened  his  eyes  feebly, 
and  looked  up  at  him.  But  he  closed  them 
again,  muttering  something  which  the  doctor 
failed  to  catch. 

"I  guess  he  's  asking  for  Dr.  Morse,"  said 
the  wife,  whose  cheeks  were  pale  again.  "  He  's 
been  asking  for  him  all  day,  and  I  did  n't  know 
what  I  'd  ought  to  do  about  it." 

Dr.  Morse,  as  Anson  knew,  was  the  family 
physician  whom  he  had  superseded.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  young  doctor's  face  looked  hard  and 
almost  cruel.  He  had  seated  himself  in  the  chair 
placed  for  him  at  the  bedside,  and  was  appar- 
ently absorbed  in  counting  his  patient's  pulse. 
It  was  but  a  faint  fluttering  of  life  beneath  his 
finger,  and  he  felt  a  sinking  at  the  heart  as  he 
tried  to  put  his  mind  upon  the  count.  He  had 
never  lost  but  one  patient,  as  he  often  reflected 
with  pride,  and  that  was  an  aged  man.  Sup- 
pose James  Ellery  should  die.  Was  it  his  fault  ? 
People  must  die,  in  spite  of  the  doctors.  It  was 
only  that  this  was  almost  his  first  fatal  case, 
that  it  should  take  such  hold  of  him.  Yet,  all 
the  same,  it  was  a  sickening  feeling  to  have  a  life 
which  you  were  trying  to  hold  slip  from  your 
grasp  in  this  way. 

His  touch  upon  the  wrist  must  have  tightened, 
for  the  patient  moved  uneasily,  and  tried  to  draw 
his  hand  away.  Dr.  Bennett  looked  at  his  watch. 
Nearly  five  minutes  had  passed,  and  yet  he  had 
not  counted  the  feeble  pulse.  He  released  the 


140  Pratt  Portraits. 

hand  suddenly  and  turned  to  the  woman  standing 
beside  him. 

* '  Do  you  want  Dr.  Morse  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  would  n't  mind,"  she  said,  hesitat- 
ingly. "  I  think  it  would  comfort  James.  He 's 
been  fretting  about  it  all  day." 

"  I  will  go  for  him." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Don't  leave  him,"  she  begged,  with 
a  frightened  look  towards  the  sick  man.  "  I  '11 
send  Willie  Anderson  next  door, ' '  and  she  hur- 
ried from  the  room. 

"  I  suppose  that  's  always  the  way,"  thought 
Anson,  ratherly  bitterly,  yet  trying  to  reassure 
himself  by  the  reflection.  "They  lay  every 
thing  to  the  doctor,  and  I  suppose  now  they  're 
sorry  they  ever  left  that  old  fogy,  with  his  nasty 
drugs  and  his  bloodlettings,  and  all  his  anti- 
quated notions.  But  he  looked  from  time  to  time 
uneasily  at  his  patient. 

It  was  a  miserable  situation,  and  every  moment 
increased  Anson' s  perplexity  and  distress.  He 
got  up  and  paced  the  room — for  Mrs.  Bllery  did 
not  return — and  tried  to  cast  off  the  terrible 
weight  of  anxiety.  Then  he  paused  and  looked 
again  at  the  sufferer.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his 
heart  was  lead  within  him.  He  was  standing 
face  to  face  with  death — not  death  as  he  had  seen 
it,  coming  to  release  a  pilgrim  bowed  down  with 
years  and  infirmity,  but  death,  summoning  the 
soul  of  a  man  in  the  prime  and  vigor  of  life.  He 
seemed  to  see  the  grim  spectre  defying  him,  and 


A  New  England  Quack.  141 

he,  who  should  have  been  armed  to  the  teeth, 
stood  weaponless,  helpless  as  a  child.  A  shuffling 
sound  at  the  door  startled  him,  and  then  he 
heard  a  childish  voice  whimpering — "  Muwer ! 
Muwer  !  L,et  me  in  !  " 

He  went  and  opened  the  door  and  said  sternly  : 
"  Your  mother  is  n't  here.  Go  away  !  "  and  the 
little  figure  turned  and  fled  from  the  strange 
man,  in  whose  set  face  the  child  had  not  recog- 
nized the  doctor. 

And  still  the  mother  did  not  return.  She  must 
have  gone  herself  for  Dr.  Morse.  Anson  paced 
the  room  in  growing  anguish  of  spirit.  It  seemed 
like  a  horrible  nightmare,  and  he  flung  his  head 
back  violently  to  wake  himself.  Yet  he  knew, 
with  an  insistent,  grinding  knowledge,  that  it 
was  a  nightmare  from  which  there  would  be  no 
awakening. 

In  after  years  when  he  looked  back  upon  that 
day,  one  consolation  remained  to  him  in  his 
shame  and  self-abasement.  He  had  not  carried 
on  the  pitiful  farce  a  moment  after  it  was  revealed 
to  him  in  its  true  light.  Though  his  mind  was 
not  prompt  to  accept  the  bitter  truth  of  his  in- 
competency,  a  deeper  consciousness  of  it  was  so 
borne  in  upon  him,  that  he  offered  no  remedy — 
gave  no  advice.  From  the  moment  when  his  fin- 
ger touched  the  vanishing  pulse,  he  ceased  to  act 
his  miserable  part.  His  feeble  pleas  for  himself, 
his  fretful  accusations  of  others,  were  but  surface 
disturbances. 


142  Pratt  Portraits. 

As  lie  sat  beside  his  patient  in  the  gathering 
twilight,  listening  to  his  labored  breathing  and 
feeble  moanings,  he  looked  upon  the  dying  man 
with  a  passion  of  envy  stronger,  even,  than  his 
remorse.  To  die  !  To  die  !  To  escape  from  a 
life,  maimed,  ruined,  as  his  own  must  be,  if  this 
were  indeed  no  nightmare,  but  an  inexorable 
fate. 

There  was  a  sudden  sound  of  steps  in  the  pas- 
sage-way, and  the  door  opened  softly.  A  light 
streamed  in  from  the  lamp  which  Mrs.  Kllery  held 
in  her  hand,  and  at  first  Anson  saw  only  her 
frightened  face.  But  there,  in  the  shadow,  was 
the  short,  sturdy  figure  of  Dr.  Morse,  the  despised 
rival  of  the  successful  young  practitioner.  While 
Mrs.  Bllery  explained,  in  a  hurried  whisper,  that 
she  had  not  found  Willie  Anderson,  and  had  her- 
self been  searching  through  the  town  for  Dr. 
Morse,  the  latter  stepped  to  the  bedside,  and 
made  a  hasty  examination  of  the  patient.  He 
shook  his  head  and  Anson  fancied  that  he  heard 
the  words— "  Too  late." 

A  baby's  wail  from  the  kitchen  broke  rudely 
upon  the  solemn  hush,  a  door  was  opened,  and 
the  sound  of  fretful  voices  approached.  Dr.  Ben- 
nett stood  an  instant  irresolute.  Then  he  said,  in 
a  dry,  hard  voice  :  "  I  will  go  and  quiet  the  chil- 
dren. " 

"  Oh,  if  you  would  !  "  said  Mrs.  Kllery,  grate- 
fully ;  and  Anson  left  the  room,  accepting  it  as 
his  dismissal. 


A  New  England  Quack.  143 

He  went  into  the  kitchen  and  humbly  did  his 
best  to  pacify  the  peevish,  hungry  little  people 
who  were  quarrelling  in  the  dark.  He  lit  a  lamp 
and  got  them  some  gingerbread  from  a  high  shelf 
in  the  cupboard,  and  presently  they  were  stand- 
ing around  his  chair,  five  little  eager  listeners, 
while  he  told  them  the  story  of  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer.  Curiously  enough,  he  became  so  absorbed 
in  the  old  tale,  that  he  succeeded  in  detaching 
his  mind,  for  the  moment,  from  all  that  was  real 
and  painful,  and,  finding  an  unspeakable  relief  in 
this  momentary  oblivion,  he  continued  his  story- 
telling, relating,  with  a  feverish  earnestness  and 
rapidity,  the  adventures  of  one  after  another  of 
the  nursery  heroes. 

An  hour  or  more  had  passed  thus,  when  sud- 
denly a  heavy  step  just  outside  the  door  smote 
upon  his  consciousness  like  a  blow,  and  he  stood 
up  to  meet  his  accuser. 

Dr.  Morse  opened  the  door,  and  said,  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  very  much  like  a  command  :  * '  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  Dr.  Ben- 
nett. Suppose  we  step  out-of-doors. ' 

Bennett  pushed  the  children  rather  roughly 
aside,  and  followed  his  summons.  The  stars  were 
out,  and  the  evening  air  was  sweet  with  the  fra- 
grance of  apple-blossoms.  As  he  stepped  off  the 
low,  flat  door  stone,  Anson  felt  a  sudden  giddiness, 
and  faltered  in  his  gait.  But  the  voice  of  Dr.  Morse 
steadied  him. 

"Your    patient    is    dead,"  he  said,  harshly. 


144  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  There  's  a  neighbor  woman  in  there  with  Mrs. 
Ellery." 

They  walked  down  the  little  path  and  back 
again. 

"  I  thought  I  should  like  to  know  what  your 
treatment  of  pneumonia  is.'* 

"Pneumonia!"  exclaimed  Anson,  involun- 
tarily. 

"Yes,  pneumonia.  I  assume  that  you  con- 
cealed the  nature  of  the  disease  out  of  considera- 
tion for  Mrs.  Ellery.  You  did  not,  of  course, 
blunder  in  the  diagnosis  of  so  plain  a  case." 

Anson  made  no  reply. 

"  How  long  has  your  patient  been  ill  ?  " 

There  was  a  sarcastic  emphasis  on  the  words 
"  your  patient ' '  as  often  as  the  doctor  spoke  them. 

"  I  was  first  called  last  Monday." 

"  H'm  !     Did  he  seem  pretty  sick  then  ?  " 

"  No.  He  only  seemed  to  have  a  violent  cold. 
He  was  feverish  and  coughed  a  good  deal,  and  he 
complained  of  a  pain  in  his  side.  But  that  went 
off  after  three  days." 

"  How  was  his  pulse  ?  " 

"  Rapid,  but  pretty  strong." 

"  And  his  respiration  ?  " 

"  He  seemed  to  breathe  easily." 

The  elder  man's  lip  curled  scornfully.  They 
were  still  pacing  up  and  down  the  path  to  the 
front  door. 

'  *  lyet  us  step  outside  the  gate, ' '  said  Anson, 
"  where  we  sha'n't  have  to  turn  so  often." 


A  New  England  Quack.  145 

As  they  opened  the  gate,  Anson's  horse  turned 
his  head  toward  his  master  and  whinnied  softly. 
It  was  singularly  comforting.  The  horse,  at 
least,  believed  in  him,  and  looked  to  him  for 
release. 

.  "  I  suppose  you  know  that  the  respiration  must 
be  closely  watched.  It 's  a  pity  you  can't  speak 
more  positively  about  it." 

A  feeling  of  irritation  came  over  Anson.  He 
resented  being  catechised,  and  resentment  was  a 
relief. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  could  do  about  it 
now,"  he  said,  "  if  I  chose  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh  !  then  you  kept  yourself  informed.  That 
is  well.  What  stimulant  did  you  give  him  ?  ' ' 

Here  Anson  seemed  to  feel  the  ground  under 
his  feet  once  more,  and  he  said  with  decision  : 
11  Our  school  does  not  believe  in  stimulants." 

"  And  nourishment  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  He  was  too  feverish  to  be  given  much  nour- 
ishment." 

"  Too  feverish  for  nourishment,  and  his  pulse 
sinking  to  nothing !  Good  heavens,  man,  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about !  " 

Again  there  was  a  feeble  flutter  of  self-assertion 
in  Anson's  harassed  mind,  and  he  answered, 
with  a  last  attempt  at  dignity : 

"You  must  remember,  Dr.  Morse,  that  you 
and  I  belong  to  different  schools  of  medicine. ' ' 

Here  the  doctor's  patience  gave  out,  and  his 
wrath  broke  loose — 


146  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Different  schools!"  he  cried.  "Different 
schools !  You  're  talking  arrant  bosh  !  Your 
sort  don't  belong  to  any  school  under  heaven. 
The  Lord  knows  there  's  no  love  lost  betwixt  me 
and  the  homoeopaths.  They  're  a  wrong-headed 
lot,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the  whole  wretched 
fallacy  uprooted  and  cast  to  the  winds.  But  there 
are  scientific  men  among  them,  who  are  neither 
knaves  nor  fools,  and  I  won't  have  any  body  of 
scientific  men  insulted.  Such  men  as  you  are  the 
curse  of  any  school — it  is  such  men  as  you  who 
have  brought  it  into  disrepute — it  is  such  men  as 
you " 

"  For  God's  sake,  stop!" 

The  doctor  turned,  suddenly  ashamed  of  his 
torrent  of  words,  and  looked  at  Anson,  who  had 
stopped  in  his  walk,  and  stood  clutching  a 
thin  rail  fence,  which  creaked  and  wavered  in  his 
grasp.  In  the  dim  starlight  his  face  looked  drawn 
and  deathly  white. 

"  Do  you  feel  ill  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  mortally  ill,"  said  Anson,  with  a  harsh 
laugh.  "  If  you  had  a  pistol  about  you,  I  think 
I  could  cure  my  own  case  quicker  than  you 
could." 

"  Here,  take  my  arm — I  'm  afraid  I  was  a 
brute." 

"  We  're  all  brutes  together,"  said  Anson.  "  I 
don't  want  your  arm.  It  is  n't  my  body  that 
you  've  butchered,"  and  he  walked  toward  his 
chaise  and  began  fumbling  with  the  hitching 


A  New  England  Quack.  147 

rein.  The  doctor  watched  him  uneasily,  but  did 
not  venture  to  help  him.  When  he  had  un- 
fastened the  rein,  Anson  lifted  the  weight  a  few 
inches,  but  dropped  it  again,  and  left  it  lying 
on  the  ground.  As  he  got  into  the  chaise 
he  reeled  slightly,  and  the  doctor  took  a  step  for- 
ward. But  he  recovered  himself  without  help, 
and  when  he  was  seated,  he  gathered  up  the  reins 
and  drove  rapidly  away.  Dr.  Morse  stood  look- 
ing after  the  black  chaise  top,  as  it  disappeared 
in  the  darkness,  and  listening  to  the  sound  of  the 
receding  wheels. 

"  Who  could  have  supposed  that  a  quack  had 
a  conscience,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  walked  back  to  the  desolate  little  house. 

Anson  Bennett  had  gone  down  into  a  blackness 
of  darkness  infinitely  more  terrible  than  anything 
the  good  doctor  conceived  of. 

One  pleasant  evening  four  days  later,  Dr.  Morse 
sat  in  his  office  enjoying  an  hour  of  hard-earned 
leisure.  The  office  was  a  plain,  uninviting  room, 
with  oil-cloth  on  the  floor,  shabby  old  furniture, 
and  an  unsightly  hole  under  the  mantlepiece, 
where  a  stove-pipe  did  duty  in  winter  time.  But 
the  doctor  loved  the  place,  and  was  never  so  com- 
fortable as  when  sitting,  as  now,  in  his  revolving- 
chair,  surrounded  by  his  well-worn  books  and 
dusty  bottles,  smoking  the  second  half  of  a  cigar. 
He  smoked  very  slowly,  waiting,  after  each  whiff, 
to  watch  the  blue  incense  curl  and  wind  in  a 
vanishing  spiral. 


148  Pratt  Portraits. 

To-night  he  was  taking  his  pleasure  more 
slowly  and  thoughtfully,  if  possible,  than  was  his 
wont.  In  fact,  he  once  let  his  cigar  go  out  en- 
tirely, a  thing  which  he  prided  himself  upon  just 
avoiding,  in  his  skilful  prolongation  of  the  indul- 
gence. He  was  ruminating  upon  Mrs.  Ellery 
and  her  perplexities,  which  occupied  his  mind  as 
often  as  it  was  free  from  immediate  demands. 
Between  whiles  he  permitted  himself  an  occa- 
sional fling  of  scorn  at  that  '  *  miserable  young 
quack. ' '  When  the  cigar  had  been  long  enough 
extinguished  for  the  smoke  to  have  yielded  to 
the  perfume  of  the  blossoms  which  floated  in  at 
the  open  window,  the  delicate  odor  recalled  so 
vividly  the  circumstances  of  his  talk  with  Ben- 
nett, that  he  felt  a  return  of  that  compunction  and 
soft-heartedness  which  he  had  come  to  regret, 
and  he  hastily  struck  a  match  and  relighted  his 
cigar. 

Presently  there  was  a  step  on  the  gravel  walk, 
and,  looking  up,  the  doctor  saw  the  object  of  his 
indignation  approach  his  door.  As  the  young 
man  entered,  Dr.  Morse  rose  with  conflicting  feel- 
ings. He  did  not  immediately  offer  his  hand, 
and  when  he  did  so  Bennett  had  seen  his  hesita- 
tion and  withheld  his  own. 

"You  need  n't  mind  about  shaking  hands," 
he  said,  with  a  touch  of  dignity  which  seemed 
scarcely  compatible  with  the  situation  as  the  doc- 
tor looked  at  it.  "I  have  n't  come  to  you  on  my 
own  account,  and  I  won't  trouble  you  for  long." 


A  New  England  Quack.  149 

The  two  men  sat  down  and  were  silent  for  a 
moment.  The  cigar  had  again  gone  out,  and  the 
scent  of  the  blossoms  filled  the  room.  The  voices 
of  the  doctor's  wife  and  daughters  came  in  at  the 
open  window,  and  made  upon  Bennett  an  inde- 
scribable impression  of  home  and  comfort.  This 
was  what  he  had  looked  forward  to.  Honor  and 
love  and  a  happy  home.  And  the  short-lived 
blossoms  whose  sweetness  had  mingled  with  his 
dream,  had  not  yet  passed  away  !  But  the  doctor 
was  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Dr.  Morse,"  he  began,  "  you  will  not  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  I  have  given  up  doctoring, 
and  you  will,  of  course,  understand  that  the  only 
wish  which  I  can  have,  or  at  least  which  I  have 
any  right  to  have,  is  to  make  what  reparation  I 
can  to  the  family  of  my  unhappy  patient." 

The  doctor  was  not  only  surprised,  but  fairly 
taken  aback  by  this  speech.  He  repeated  the 
young  man's  word  mechanically. 

"Reparation.  Yes,  of  course,  of  course.  Quite 
natural." 

But  his  mind  was  undergoing  another  awkward 
change  of  attitude  toward  quacks. 

"  You  would  have  heard  from  me  before  this," 
Bennett  continued,  '  *  but  I  thought  it  best  not  to 
trouble  you  until  the  matter  was  settled.  I  have 
been  home  and  talked  things  over  with  my  poor 
father.  It  comes  hard  on  him,  but  he  looks  at 
it  as  I  do,  and  he  will  take  me  back  into 
business." 


1 50  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  What 's  your  business  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 
' '  We  are  opticians. ' ' 

I  '  H'm  !     Do  you  like  the  trade  ?  ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  has  to  do  with  the 
question.  We  're  in  it,  and  it  gives  us  a  fair 
living.  What  I  have  come  to  ask  about  is  Mrs. 
Kllery.  I  shall,  of  course,  consider  myself  re- 
sponsible for  the  support  of  the  family,  and  I 
want  you  to  act  for  me  in  the  matter.  I  have 
inquired  about  her  husband's  earnings,  and  I 
think  I  can  spare  very  nearly  that  income  from 
the  beginning.  Your  part  would  be  to  invent 
some  reason  for  her  receiving  it  without  betray- 
ing me.  I  'm  afraid  she  would  n't  take  the 
money  if  she  knew  all.  Do  you  think  you  could 
arrange  this  ?  ' ' 

II  Kasily  enough,"  said  the  doctor.     He  exam- 
ined his  small  fraction   of  a  cigar  with   much 
apparent  interest,  and  then  he  added :  ' '  I  sup- 
pose Mrs.  Kllery  has  a  mind,  but  I  have  never 
known  her  to  use  it.     She  would  believe  that  the 
ravens  were  feeding  her  if  I  told  her  so. ' ' 

Anson  was  about  to  make  some  reply  when  the 
doctor  asked,  abruptly  :  ' '  How  long  do  you  pro- 
pose to  keep  it  up  ? ' ' 

1 '  How  long  ?    Always,  I  suppose. ' ' 
' '  And  when  you  are  married  and  have  a  family 
of  your  own  to  provide  for  ?  " 

"I,  married  ?     I  shall  never  marry." 
"  Oh  !    You  can't  be  so  sure  of  that  at  your 
age." 


A  New  England  Quack.  151 

"  I  tell  you  I  shall  never  marry. " 

' '  Have  you  never  wished  to  ?  ' ' 

Anson  sprang  impatiently  from  his  seat  and 
strode  to  the  window. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  quit  your  probing,  Dr.  Morse. 
I  did  n't  come  to  talk  about  myself." 

Dr.  Morse  rose,  more  deliberately,  and  followed 
him  to  the  window,  where  the  light  was  still 
clear.  Bennett's  face  was  under  better  control 
than  his  voice,  but  there  was  a  change  in  it  which 
the  doctor  recognized  as  permanent.  A  great 
wave  of  respect  and  compassion  went  through 
him. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  in  an  altered  voice,  "  I 
should  feel  it  an  honor  if  you  would  shake  hands 
with  me." 

Flushing  like  a  boy,  Anson  turned  and  looked 
into  the  homely  face.  The  two  men  clasped  one 
another's  hands. 

The  next  day  Anson  sat  once  more  in  his  fa- 
ther's shop,  plying  with  skilled  fingers  the  handi- 
work to  which  he  had  been  trained.  Preoccupied 
as  he  was  with  bitter  reflections,  he  was  yet  not 
wholly  without  consolation.  His  father's  wel- 
come was  something.  Mr.  Bennett,  garrulous  in 
time  of  triumph,  had  few  words  on  this  occasion. 
When  they  entered  the  shop  together  on  that  first 
morning,  he  only  said  :  "  It  seems  real  good  to 
have  you  back,  Anson.  I  've  missed  you  con- 
siderable," but  Anson  felt  the  grip  of  the  kind 
hand  all  day  long,  and  often,  in  the  days  to  come, 


152  Pratt  Portraits. 

he  seemed  to  feel  again  that  friendly  pressure. 
In  the  practice,  too,  of  his  trade  was  unlooked-for 
solace.  The  sense  of  mastery  was  peculiarly 
soothing  to  his  wounded  self-esteem,  and  it  was 
then  that  he  realized  for  the  first  time  the  satis- 
faction of  being  an  expert.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  frequent  calls  to  the  counter  he  might  almost 
have  lost  himself  in  his  occupation. 

For  the  first  few  days  after  his  return  it  was 
surprising  how  fast  the  Bennett  custom  increased. 
One  after  another  of  the  neighbors  came  in  with 
spectacles  in  need  of  repair,  until  Anson  sus- 
pected them  of  ransacking  their  garrets  in  search 
of  discarded  glasses,  merely  for  the  sake  of  hav- 
ing a  talk  over  the  counter. 

Among  the  first  to  appear  was  Miss  Grig, 
with  a  pair  of  "  specs  "  belonging  to  her  mother, 
which  seemed  "kind  o'  loose  in  the  jints." 
Would  Anson  "jest  see  'f  he  could  n't  tighten 
'em  up  a  bit?" 

Anson  had  begun  to  feel  the  grim  humor  of 
the  thing,  and  he  made  a  pretence  of  tinkering 
the  glasses  a  little  before  returning  them. 

"Thank  'ee,"  said  Miss  Grig,  as  she  took 
them.  "  How  much  will  that  be?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  Miss  Grig.  It  is  n't  worth 
mentioning." 

"Very  much  obligated,  I  am  sure,"  said  the 
old  lady,  evidently  relieved.  She  had  rather 
begrudged  the  price  of  her  curiosity. 

"We  're  all  so  glad  to  see  you  back,  Anson," 


A  New  England  Quack.  153 

she  went  on,  with  a  comical  accession  of  interest. 
"It  seems  so  nat'ral  to  see  you  standin'  there 
behind  the  counter.  Only  it  'pears  to  me  you 
ain't  lookin'  quite  so  hearty  as  you  was.  Maybe 
you  found  doctorin'  did  n't  agree  with  you.  'T 
was  too  confinin',  'praps." 

Miss  Grig  looked  at  him  with  her  head  a  lit- 
tle on  one  side,  like  a  bright-eyed,  inquisitive 
cock-sparrow. 

"  No,  it  was  n't  exactly  that,"  Anson  replied, 
with  an  assumption  of  indifference.  ' '  The  fact 
is,  Miss  Grig,  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  did  n't  know  enough  for  doctoring." 

"  Now  do  tell.  And  we  all  heard  you  was  so 
successful  and  hed  sech  a  great  practice.  Why, 
your  Pa  told  me ' ' 

"Yes,  yes!  I  know!  Father  was  all  right 
about  that.  I  had  plenty  of  patients.  But  I 
found  it  was  a  bigger  subject  than  I  .thought 
for,  and  I  was  afraid  I  might  be  making  mistakes 
and  doing  mischief  if  anything  unusual  turned 
up." 

"An'  I  s'pose  that  idee  was  wearin'  on  you. 
Well,  I  don't  know  's  I  wonder.  The  allopaths, 
now,  do  have  a  sight  o'  larnin'.  My  second 
cousin  on  my  mother's  side  is  bringin'  up  her  son 
for  a  doctor,  and  there  don't  seem  to  be  no  end  to 
the  trouble  and  expense.  But  I  s' posed  't  was 
different  with  the  homepaths.  Them  little  pills 
seem  so  easy  given  and  so  easy  took.  An'  if 
they  don't  do  no  good,  I  don't  see  's  they  can 


1 54  Pratt  Portraits. 

do  much  harm  any  way.  You  did  n't  happen  to 
ketch  yourself  givin'  the  wrong  kind  now,  did 
you?" 

At  this  juncture  another  customer  came  in  and 
the  small  inquisition  ceased,  only  to  recommence 
in  another  form.  Happily  not  many  of  his  exam- 
iners were  as  searching  in  their  methods  as  Miss 
Grig,  and  Anson  rarely  found  himself  cornered. 
By  and  by,  too,  the  little  flurry  of  curiosity 
subsided,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  neigh- 
bors had  almost  forgotten  how  ( '  Dr.  Bennett ' ' 
came  by  his  title.  To  this,  however,  they  clung 
with  a  tenacity  which  it  was  useless  to  combat. 
How  he  hated  it !  He  used  at  first  to  feel  as 
though  his  friends  were  jeering  at  him  when  they 
called  him  ' '  doctor, ' '  and  even  in  after  years  the 
long-accustomed  title  would  sometimes  bring  a 
hot  flush  to  his  face. 

Several  years  went  by  before  pretty  Alice  Ives 
was  married,  and  then  it  was  that  Anson  allowed 
himself  the  one  extravagance  of  his  life.  He 
went  to  the  city  and  bought  a  water-color,  for 
which  he  paid  more  than  he  would  have  been 
willing  to  admit.  The  picture  was  not  much  ap- 
preciated in  the  community,  but  Alice  liked  it. 
A  branch  of  apple-blossoms  against  a  pale  blue 
sky.  So  exquisitely  were  they  painted  that  even 
the  cavillers  owned  that  you  could  almost  smell 
them,  but  "  after  all,"  they  added,  "  it  was  noth- 
ing but  a  picture  of  apple-blossoms,  just  like 
what  anybody  could  see  every  spring,  and  you 


A  New  England  Quack.          155 

would  think  it  would  be  no  great  matter  to  paint 
a  thing  like  that." 

Alice  was  so  touched  and  pleased  with  the 
charming  gift  that  she  came  over  herself  that 
same  day  after  tea  to  thank  Anson.  It  was  June, 
and  she  found  him  working  in  his  garden.  She 
stepped  lightly  down  the  garden  walk,  clad  in  a 
flowered  muslin,  with  a  broad  leghorn  hat  pushed 
back  from  her  face.  Anson  did  not  see  her  com- 
ing. He  was  on  his  knees,  weeding  the  border. 
Alice  stood  for  a  moment,  watching  him,  and  a 
wistful  look  came  into  her  dark-blue  eyes.  Some- 
how he  looked  so  poor  in  his  old  clothes  and  so 
lonesome,  so  different  from  the  Anson  of  a  few 
years  ago.  There  he  knelt,  pulling  up  the  ugly 
weeds,  and  tossing  them  into  a  basket  that  stood 
beside  him.  She  wished,  vaguely,  that  he  had 
been  planting  something.  The  sight  of  him  gave 
her  a  heartache  that  she  longed  to  ease.  If  she 
could  only  give  him  some  little  thing,  just  some- 
thing bright  and  sweet  from  her  own  abundance. 
She  reached  out  her  hand  and  plucked  a  spray  of 
laburnum  that  grew  beside  the  path.  Yet  no.  It 
would  be  foolish  to  give  him  a  flower  out  of  his 
own  garden,  and  she  hastily  tucked  it  into  her 
bodice.  Anson  heard  the  sudden  movement,  and, 
turning,  saw  her  standing  there  in  the  slanting 
sunlight.  He  got  up  and  brushed  the  earth  from 
his  hands  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he 
threw  far  away  from  him  as  Alice  came  toward 
him  with  outstretched  hands. 


1 5  6  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  O  Anson  !  "  she  cried,  and  in  her  voice  there 
was  a  something  that  neither  of  them  understood, 
a  stray  note  of  feeling  which  it  was  perhaps  as 
well  they  should  not  understand.  ' '  O  Anson  ! 
it  is  the  loveliest  of  all  my  presents.  How  came 
you  to  think  of  giving  me  such  a  beautiful 
thing?" 

"  It  came  very  natural,"  he  answered,  with  an 
odd  smile,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  both  his  and 
looked  down  into  the  fair  young  face.  ' '  You 
always  make  me  think  of  apple-blossoms,  Alice." 


i 


ALICE 


vn. 
A  NEW  ENGI,AND  CONSCIENCE. 

SEQUEL  TO    "A  NEW  ENGLAND   QUACK." 

THERE  is  a  certain  class  of  men  who  look 
like  landmarks.     No  matter  how  slight 
may  be  their  social  importance,  no  matter 
how  humble  a  part  they  may  play  in  the 
active  life  of  their  town,  they  become  identified 
with  it.    They  are  not  necessarily  men  of  marked 
appearance.     It  is  only  that  a  sight  of  one  of 
them  turning  the  key  in  his  shop-door  of  an 
evening,   or    lingering  about  the  church-porch 
after  service,  conveys  a  feeling  of  satisfaction. 
One's  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  is  gratified, 
and  one  would  rather  see  the  bent  figure  and 
time-worn  features  than  not. 

Dr.  Bennett  belonged  to  this  class  of  men.  No 
more  unobtrusive  figure  than  his  existed  in  the 
little  manufacturing  town  of  Westville.  No  citi- 
zen of  the  town  went  his  ways  more  quietly  than 
he.  Yet  his  tall,  stooping  figure,  his  thin  gray 
hair,  his  neat,  threadbare  coat,  were  clearly  indige- 
nous to  the  soil.  His  little  shop,  where  he  dealt  in 


1 58  Pratt  Portraits. 

spectacles,  magnifying-glasses,  and  kindred  aids 
to  vision,  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  landscape  as 
the  factory  chimneys  a  few  blocks  away,  or  the 
ancient  meeting-house  round  the  corner.  It  had 
always  been  there,  and  as  far  as  most  people  took 
the  trouble  to  remember,  it  had  always  been  pre- 
sided over  by  Dr.  Bennett. 

His  title  was  another  thing  about  him  which 
seemed  an  essential  part  of  his  personality,  re- 
quiring no  explanation.  The  fact  that  an  opti- 
cian is  not  usually  called  '  *  doctor, ' '  rarely  oc- 
curred to  any  one.  There  was  no  more  curiosity 
about  Dr.  Bennett  and  his  title  than  there  was 
about  the  house  he  lived  in,  and  the  inappropriate 
cupola  which  perched  on  the  gable-roof  like  a 
heavy  barnyard  fowl  on  a  dove-cote.  The  cupola 
had  emanated  from  the  brain  of  Mrs.  Henry  Ben- 
nett, Dr.  Bennett's  mother,  and  if  the  truth  were 
known,  Anson  Bennett's  unearned  title  was  also 
the  outcome  of  that  active-minded  woman's  am- 
bition. It  was  she  who  had  pushed  her  son  into 
the  practice  of  what  she  was  pleased  to  call 
homoeopathy,  it  was  she  who  had  watched  with 
swelling  pride  and  self-satisfaction  his  brilliant 
career,  it  was  she  who  had  never  become  recon- 
ciled to  its  abrupt  close  at  the  end  of  one  winter's 
trial. 

Something  had  happened,  twenty-five  years 
ago,  to  check  the  brilliant  career  of  this  only  son, 
and  he,  who  had  formerly  been  so  pliable  in  his 
mother's  hands,  had  returned  from  the  field  of 


A  New  England  Conscience.        159 

his  country  practice,  a  changed  man.  Something 
had  happened  to  dash  his  youthful  spirits,  to  kill 
his  ambition,  yet  at  the  same  time  to  harden  and 
fix  his  character  in  new  lines.  It  was  not  an  un- 
happy love  affair.  None  knew  better  than  Jane 
Bennett  that  there  was  but  one  girl  whom  Anson 
had  ever  given  a  thought  to,  and  she  believed 
that  that  girl,  the  pretty  Alice  Ives,  might  have 
been  his  for  the  asking,  long  before  she  ever 
thought  of  marrying  George  Titcomb  and  going 
to  live  in  Boston.  No,  if  his  love  affair  had  ended 
disastrously,  Anson  had  no  one  to  thank  for  it 
but  himself.  Yet  as  he  had  deserted  his  new 
career  in  the  full  tide  of  success,  Mrs.  Bennett 
naturally  found  it  impossible  to  credit  his  unvar- 
nished statement  that  he  had  ' '  made  a  botch  of 
doctoring, ' '  and  for  that  reason  had  come  back  to 
his  old  home  and  to  his  father's  counter. 

"You  need  n't  talk  to  me,"  she  had  said  over 
and  over  again  to  her  meek  good-humored  spouse. 
"You  need  n't  talk  to  me  about  Anson's  not  be- 
ing a  good  doctor.  'T  ain't  likely  he'd  ha'  made 
such  a  success  of  it  if  he  had  n't  had  the  faculty. 
Why  !  Deacon  Osgood  says  that  his  cousin  on 
his  mother's  side,  who  lives  jest  out  o'  East  Burn- 
ham,  says  they  never  was  a  doctor  in  those  parts 
that  everybody  set  such  store  by  as  Anson.  That 
old  fogy  Dr.  Morse  had  n't  any  show  at  all,  long 's 
Anson  stayed  there.  There 's  something  more  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  I 
declare  to  goodness  !  when  I  see  Anson  moping 


160  Pratt  Portraits. 

round  and  sticking  it  out  in  that  close-mouthed 
way,  I  've  half  a  mind  to  give  him  a  good  shak- 
ing!" 

' '  I  wish  you  would  ! ' '  Henry  Bennett  would 
answer,  with  suppressed  amusement,  "  I  should 
jest  like  to  see  you  !  " 

The  idea  of  her  husband's  making  a  joke  at 
her  expense  would  not  have  found  easy  entrance 
into  Jane  Bennett's  mind.  She  never  dreamed 
that,  as  he  made  this  harmless  remark,  he  was 
conjuring  up  a  picture  of  the  scene.  She  was  a 
small  woman,  to  be  sure,  and  her  son,  in  those 
early  days,  was  a  tall,  muscular  man.  But  so 
strong  was  her  sense  of  maternal  authority  that 
no  exercise  of  it  seemed  incongruous.  Had  she 
suspected  that  her  mild-visaged  husband,  whom 
she  had  always  domineered  over,  and  conse- 
quently looked  down  upon,  knew  the  whole  story 
of  his  son's  misadventure,  her  indignation  would 
have  known  no  bounds.  It  was  well  for  the 
peace  of  all  concerned  that  no  such  suspicion 
ever  crossed  her  mind. 

Meanwhile  a  quarter  of  a  century  had  passed 
over  Jane  Bennett,  and  the  disappointment  of  her 
life.  Kind  deprecatory  Henry  Bennett,  had  long 
since  received  his  last  conjugal  snub,  had  long 
since  had  his  last  sly  chuckle  at  his  wife's  ex- 
pense, and  very  quietly,  as  was  his  nature,  he  had 
slipped  out  of  the  matrimonial  bonds,  by  the  only 
loophole  of  escape  open  to  such  as  he. 

At  the  end  of  that  quarter  of  a  century,  Jane 


A  New  England  Conscience.        161 

Bennett's  figure  was  as  alert  and  as  wiry  as  ever ; 
her  hair  was  as  black,  her  glance  as  sharp. 
Time's  chisel  had  not  been  keen  enough  to  do 
much  execution  on  that  resolute  countenance. 
All  the  deeper  had  been  its  marks  upon  her  son's 
face.  At  the  age  of  fifty,  Anson  Bennett  looked 
older,  duller,  wearier  than  his  mother. 

This  especially  when  his  face  was  in  repose,  as 
was  usually  the  case,  and  never  more  so  than 
when  undergoing  a  remonstrance  from  his  mother. 

They  were  sitting  together  at  dinner  one  Sun- 
day noon  in  November.  Mrs.  Bennett  behind 
her  cold  joint,  looking  precisely  as  Anson  remem- 
bered her  from  his  earliest  childhood.  Not  that 
the  fashion  of  her  dress  or  of  her  surroundings 
had  remained  unchanged.  Mrs.  Bennett  prided 
herself  not  a  little  upon  her  modishness.  A  plain 
white  china  service  had,  in  accordance  with  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  superseded  the  old  blue  stone- 
ware, which,  with  its  Dutch  canal  views  and  incon- 
sequent minarets,  had  been  the  delight  of  Anson' s 
childhood ;  an  elaborate  plated-silver  caster 
adorned  the  middle  of  the  table ;  while  on  the 
wall  opposite  him  a  many-hued  chromo  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  two  cheap  companion 
prints  once  dear  to  his  heart.  Yet  amid  all  these 
changes  his  mother's  face  seemed  to  him  quite 
unaltered,  and  the  voice  in  which  she  did  her 
fault-finding  was  the  same  voice  at  whose  sound 
he  had  trembled  before  he  learned  to  recognize 
any  higher  authority  than  that  of  its  owner. 


1 6  2  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  I  must  say,  Anson,"  said  the  sharp  voice, 
"  I  must  say  that  I  was  mortified  to  see  you 
going  to  church  this  morning  in  your  old  winter 
overcoat.  When  I  've  been  at  you  for  a  month  o' 
Sundays  about  getting  a  new  one.  Why  on  earth 
do  you  keep  putting  it  off  ?  " 

"I  don't  want  a  new  overcoat,"  said  Anson, 
quietly. 

"You  don't  want  a  new  overcoat?  Well, 
you  'd  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  if  you 
don't.  That  's  all  I  can  say.  They  was  n't  a 
man  in  the  middle  aisle  that  looked  as  shabby  as 
you  did.  If  I  was  you  I  'd  try  and  scare  up  a 
little  self-respect  jest  for  the  sake  of  appear- 
ances. ' ' 

"  The  overcoat 's  as  warm  as  it  ever  was,"  said 
Anson,  slowly  and  stubbornly.  * '  And  what  I 
want  an  overcoat  for  is  warmth.  When  I  begin 
to  feel  cold  in  it  I  '11  get  another." 

"Yes  !  and  till  it  lets  the  wind  through,  you  '11 
go  about  looking  like  what  folks  call  you — an  old 
miser  !  " 

Jane  Bennett  shot  a  sidewise  glance  at  her  son, 
to  note  the  effect  of  the  word.  To  her  chagrin  it 
had  apparently  no  effect  whatever.  Dr.  Bennett 
ate  his  dinner  with  unimpaired  relish,  and  looked 
ready  for  a  change  of  subject.  The  son  sat  at  the 
side  of  the  table,  and  not  opposite  his  mother,  as 
would  have  seemed  natural.  It  was  characteris- 
tic of  Anson,  though  few  credited  him  with  the 
finer  sensibilities,  that  he  never  had  been  able  to 


A  New  England  Conscience.        \  63 

overcome  his  reluctance  to  taking  his  father's  seat 
at  table.  He  had  at  first  feared  to  hurt  his  moth- 
er's feelings  by  so  doing,  and  when  at  last  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  his  father's  widow  was  not 
sensitive  in  such  matters,  a  new  compunction  and 
loyalty  took  possession  of  him,  and  from  that  time 
forward  he  guarded  the  old  man's  memory  with 
jealous  tenderness. 

To-day,  as  his  mother  chid  him,  for  she  did 
not  let  the  subject  rest  there,  his  mind  wandered, 
as  it  often  did,  to  the  kind  old  man  whose  plain 
sense  of  duty  had  sustained  him  when  duty  was 
not  easy.  In  a  flash  of  memory  he  beheld  the 
changes  which  had  passed  over  his  father's  face 
when  he  had  come  to  him  in  the  crisis  of  his  life. 
The  incredulity,  and  then  the  pain,  with  which 
the  elder  man  had  listened  as  his  son  told  him 
how,  in  his  ignorance  and  presumption,  he  had 
undoubtedly  caused  the  death  of  a  patient ;  the 
relief  with  which  his  listener  learned  that  he 
should  give  up  the  practice  of  medicine,  though 
in  so  doing  he  was  giving  up  a  distinction  which 
had  been  the  pride  of  Henry  Bennett's  heart. 
Best  of  all,  the  glow  of  approval  in  the  homely 
old  face,  the  quick  tears  in  the  kind  eyes,  when 
Anson  declared  his  intention  of  undertaking  the 
support  of  this  same  James  Kllery's  family. 

But  while  all  this  passed  in  Anson  Bennett's 
mind  his  face  wore  the  look  his  mother  best  knew 
— a  look  of  quiet  obstinacy — a  look  which  exas- 
perated her.  And  it  came  to  pass,  as  it  often  did 


1 64  Pratt  Portraits. 

in  their  one-sided  discussions,  that  Jane  Bennett's 
wish  to  carry  her  point  was  overborne  by  a  desire 
to  punish  her  son.  As  she  gave  him  a  second 
' '  help  ' '  of  boiled  potatoes,  she  asked,  with  ap- 
parent irrelevancy  : 

"  Did  you  see  Alice  Ives  that  was  ?  She  was 
sitting  in  her  Pa's  pew,  dressed  up  real  stylish 
and  becomin'.  I  thought  when  I  saw  her  look- 
ing at  you  across  the  aisle  that  she  must  be  glad 
enough  that  she  'd  had  the  sense  to  marry  a  man 
that  was  free  with  his  money." 

"  No,  I  did  n't  see  Alice,"  said  Anson,  calmly. 
He  did  not  flush  nor  wince,  nor  did  his  voice 
betray  any  emotion.  Yet  a  change  went  over  his 
countenance,  something  like  the  change  which 
goes  over  a  dull  landscape  when  the  long  after- 
noon light  begins  to  brood. 

"I  'm  glad  Alice  is  so  well  off,"  he  added, 
presently.  "  They  say  she  's  got  two  little  girls 
as  pretty  as  she  used  to  be. ' ' 

"  She  's  jest  as  pretty  as  ever  she  was,"  said 
his  mother,  sharply.  "  I  do  hope  to  goodness," 
she  added,  ' '  that  you  wont  go  to  see  her  in  that 
old  overcoat.  She  's  going  away  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  shall  go  to  see  her  at  all," 
he  answered.  "  At  any  rate,  I  'm  going  over  to 
East  Burnham  this  afternoon  to  see  Dr.  Morse. ' ' 

Poor  Jane  Bennett  had  got  the  worst  of  it,  as 
she  often  did  nowadays.  Dr.  Morse  was  her  bug- 
bear. Without  ever  having  seen  that  excellent 
man,  she  had  conceived  an  aversion  to  him  which 


A  New  England  Conscience.        165 

was  perhaps  not  without  foundation.  In  the  first 
place,  he  was  an  "  allopath,"  and  although  her 
son  had  kept  his  allegiance  to  homoeopathy,  main- 
taining that  he  had  ' '  made  a  botch  of  doctoring  " 
only  because  he  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  whole 
subject  of  medicine,  although  she  could  not  ac- 
cuse Dr.  Morse  of  having  converted  her  son  to  his 
own  views,  yet  she  knew  by  intuition  that  he  had 
in  some  way  been  instrumental  in  the  downfall  of 
her  ambition.  Furthermore,  the  fact  that  the 
only  indulgence  Anson  ever  permitted  himself 
was  an  occasional  visit  to  the  doctor  at  Kast 
Burnham,  was  in  itself  enough  to  excite  her  jeal- 
ousy. What  had  this  old  fogy  to  do  with  her 
boy  ?  what  attraction  could  he  have  to  offer  ?  At 
first  she  had  fancied  there  might  be  a  daughter  in 
the  case  ;  that  perhaps  Anson,  faithless  to  his 
first  love,  had  lost  his  heart  to  one  of  the  Miss 
Morses ;  that  he  had  relinquished  doctoring  to 
please  the  old  man.  But  all  her  speculations  had 
come  to  nought,  and  now  she  had  nothing  more 
definite  in  support  of  her  aversion  than  the  same 
instinctive  distrust  which  she  had  always  cher- 
ished. And  so  it  happened  that  when  Anson 
said  he  was  going  to  East  Burnham  his  mother 
felt  peculiarly  frustrated,  and  she  wondered  in  her 
heart  what  she  had  ever  done  to  deserve  so  un- 
dutiful  a  son.  It  was  true  that  he  had  always 
treated  her  with  scrupulous  justice,  that  she  en- 
joyed her  fair  share  of  his  business  profits,  that 
with  all  his  alleged  miserliness  he  paid  his  board 


1 66  Pratt  Portraits. 

regularly,  that  he  never  spoke  a  disrespectful 
word  to  her,  but  all  this  had  little  weight.  Jane 
Bennett  took  her  blessings  for  granted.  Her  mind 
dwelt  by  preference  upon  her  small  vexations. 

Yet  if  she  had  her  faults,  and  no  one  could  deny 
them,  the  poor  woman  endured  her  full  measure 
of  punishment.  Faults  of  disposition  are  not  as 
grave  as  many  of  those  to  which  human  nature  is 
heir,  but  they  bring  their  own  retribution.  And 
while  Jane  Bennett  alienated  her  son's  affection 
by  a  course  of  steady  opposition,  of  daily  bicker- 
ing, yet  there  was  nothing  which  she  craved  as 
she  did  that  very  filial  love  which  got  no  chance 
to  blossom. 

Perhaps  she  was  in  reality  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning.  Certainly,  when  Anson,  twenty- 
five  years  previous,  had  refrained  from  telling  her 
the  true  story  of  the  disaster  which  had  fallen 
upon  him,  he  had  done  her  a  cruel  injustice.  The 
fact,  too,  that  her  husband  had  had  no  impulse  to 
take  her  into  his  confidence  showed  that  he  also 
misjudged  her.  In  spite  of  her  narrow-minded- 
ness, her  self-conceit,  her  ill-temper,  Jane  Bennett 
had  very  strict  ideas  of  right  and  wrong.  If  she 
once  had  been  convinced  that  Anson  had  com- 
mitted a  wrong,  even  at  her  own  instigation,  she 
would  have  been  eager  to  see  the  wrong  atoned 
for.  As  it  was,  she  lived  in  a  tangle  of  vexations, 
to  which  she  had  no  clue.  How  could  she  know 
that  her  son's  life  was  one  long  expiation  ?  How 
could  she  divine  that  he  wore  his  shabby  old 


A  New  England  Conscience.        167 

clothes  and  walked  in  a  narrow,  monotonous  path 
in  order  that  he  might  fulfil  what  he  felt  to  be  a 
sacred  duty  ?  giving  herself  in  a  state  of  chronic 
disappointment  and  chagrin,  she  badgered  her 
son  into  a  dull  indifference,  and  underneath  her 
apparent  self-confidence  was  a  mortifying  and 
wounding  conviction  that  he  did  not  love  her. 

When  Anson  returned  from  Kast  Burnham 
that  same  evening,  he  did  not  go  directly  home. 
He  went  to  his  shop  instead,  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him,  lighted  the  gas,  and  fell  to  tinkering  a 
pair  of  glasses  that  had  been  left  with  him  for 
repairs.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had 
sought  refuge  from  unruly  emotions  in  the  exer- 
cise of  his  prosaic  calling,  but  it  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  done  so  of  a  Sunday  evening.  He 
reflected,  however,  that  his  grandmother,  Old 
Lady  Pratt,  always  kept  her  Sabbath  from  sun- 
down to  sundown,  and  that  what  was  a  principle 
with  her  could  not  be  a  crime  in  her  grandson. 
And  so  he  worked  away  as  industriously  as 
though  his  daily  bread  had  depended  upon  the 
immediate  completion  of  that  small  job. 

Meanwhile  his  face  looked  younger,  happier, 
more  animated,  than  it  had  looked  for  years,  and 
no  one  seeing  it  would  have  guessed  the  nature 
of  the  errand  from  which  he  had  just  returned. 
He  had  gone  that  afternoon  to  consult  his  old 
friend  upon  his  own  condition ;  he  had  learned 
that  certain  strange  and  disturbing  sensations  he 
had  experienced  of  late  were  the  symptoms  of  a 


1 68  Pratt  Portraits. 

malignant  disease  from  which  nothing  but  a 
severe  surgical  operation  could  possibly  save 
him.  He  knew  that  the  result  of  such  an 
operation  was  very  doubtful,  yet  he  had  de- 
termined to  entrust  his  case  to  a  young  sur- 
geon, James  Ellery  by  name,  whose  education  and 
opening  career  he  had  watched  with  an  intense 
interest,  the  secret  of  which  only  Dr.  Morse 
knew.  James  Ellery,  the  youngest  of  the  five 
children  left  fatherless  through  Anson  Bennett's 
fault,  had  shown  an  aptitude  for  study,  and 
Anson  had  joyfully  undertaken  to  educate  the 
boy  for  the  practice  of  medicine.  Now  at  last  the 
boy  had  grown  to  be  a  man,  fully  equipped  for 
his  profession,  giving  promise  of  unusual  distinc- 
tion, and  Anson  Bennett's  heart  was  far  more 
bound  up  in  this  young  career  than  in  his  own 
colorless,  eventless  life.  As  he  sat  tinkering  the 
old  glasses  a  feeling  of  exultation  made  his  heart 
beat  faster.  Yes,  he,  Anson  Bennett,  had  been 
the  determining  power  in  this  young  man's  life. 
Unaware  though  he  was,  of  the  very  name  of  his 
benefactor,  young  Ellery  owed  his  education, 
owed  his  future  to  him,  the  wretched  quack,  on 
whose  ignorant  ambition  his  father  had  been  sac- 
rificed. And  now  Dr.  Morse  saw  no  reason  why 
this  boy  should  not  undertake  to  perform  one  of 
the  most  difficult  operations  known  to  science, 
and  he,  Anson  Bennett,  was  to  furnish  the  test. 

The  town  clock  struck  nine,  and  Anson  put  up 
his  tools  and  prepared  to  leave  the  shop.     As  he 


ANSON 


A  New  England  Conscience.        1 69 

stepped  out  into  the  night  air,  he  found  himself 
taking  a  round-about  way  home.  It  was  prettier 
by  way  of  High  Street,  he  said  to  himself,  but  in 
his  heart  he  knew  that  it  was  the  presence  of  his 
old  love  in  the  ancient  square  house  behind  the 
elm  trees,  that  lured  his  feet  from  the  usual  path. 
It  was  a  bleak  November  evening.  The  wind 
swayed  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  in  front  of 
the  old  Ives  homestead.  A  fragile-looking  moon, 
about  a  week  old,  was  pitching  and  tossing  among 
the  clouds,  and  Anson  vaguely  wondered  if  it 
might  not  founder.  There  were  lights  in  several 
of  the  windows,  and  he  paused  a  moment,  look- 
ing at  them.  He  did  not  speculate  as  to  Alice's 
whereabouts  in  the  house.  Rather,  he  had  a  feel- 
ing that  all  that  soft,  curtained  light  emanated 
from  her  presence.  And  as  he  stood  there  he 
recalled  the  day,  the  very  hour,  in  which  he  had 
last  thought  of  her  as  a  possible  possession  of  his 
own.  He  remembered  the  exact  appearance  of 
the  horse  he  was  driving  that  day,  the  creaking 
of  the  wheel  of  his  chaise,  causing  him  to 
wonder  whether  he  was  going  to  have  a  hot 
box  ;  he  remembered  how  green  were  the  mead- 
ows between  which  he  drove,  and  most  clearly, 
most  poignantly  did  he  recall  the  rich  scent 
of  the  apple-blossoms,  the  peculiar  delicacy  of 
their  color,  and  the  way  a  stray  petal  came 
floating  down  and  rested  on  his  knee.  To-night 
there  was  no  longer  any  pain  in  these  recollec- 
tions. He  seemed  to  be  losing  hold  of  his  old 


1 70  Pratt  Portraits. 

self  and  his  old  desires,  and  even  as  lie  stood 
before  the  house,  whose  roof  sheltered  Alice,  his 
mind  returned  with  a  sudden  rebound  to  the 
thought  of  what  was  coming,  and  he  hurried 
home  with  a  quick  step  and  a  light  heart. 

In  the  few  days  that  intervened  before  the  oper- 
ation was  performed,  Dr.  Bennett  led  his  usual 
life,  maintained  all  his  usual  habits.  Every 
morning  he  walked  in  his  shabby  old  overcoat  to 
his  little  shop,  where  he  industriously  mended 
old  glasses,  or  made  an  occasional  sale  of  new 
ones.  When  meal-times  came,  he  sat  at  table 
with  his  mother,  and  patiently  answered  her 
questions,  letting  her  talk  and  speculate,  criticise 
and  suggest  what  she  would  in  regard  to  the  im- 
pending event.  But  though  he  never  failed  in 
attention  to  her  words,  he  was  singularly  obli- 
vious to  the  signs  of  anxiety  and  distress  in  her 
face  and  manner,  which  would  not  have  escaped 
an  ordinary  observer.  If  he  gave  a  thought  to 
the  matter,  it  was  merely  to  note  that  she  seemed 
more  irritable  than  usual.  He  never  guessed  the 
tension  of  feeling  under  which  she  was  living. 

Once  he  said  a  very  cruel  thing  to  her.  It  was 
at  breakfast  two  days  before  the  Thursday  which 
mother  and  son  looked  forward  to  with  such  dif- 
ferent feelings.  Anson  did  not  notice  the  lines 
and  shadows  on  his  mother's  face  which  beto- 
kened a  sleepless  night,  nor  did  he  dream  that  she 
had  lain  awake  hour  after  hour,  wondering  what 
she  could  do  to  express  her  love  and  solicitude. 


A  New  England  Conscience.        171 

"  Anson,"  she  said,  looking  not  at  him,  but  at 
a  hole  in  her  napkin,  which  she  seemed  to  have 
just  discovered,  "  Anson,  I  've  been  thinking 
that  I  'd  give  you  a  new  overcoat  this  winter, 
seeing  as  you  don't  care  to  buy  one." 

With  that  singular  obtuseness  where  his  mother 
was  concerned,  which  had  grown  upon  this  good 
and  conscientious  man,  he  fancied  that  she  only 
meant  to  shame  him  into  doing  as  she  wished, 
and  he  said,  indifferently  : 

"  I  guess  you  'd  better  not,  Mother.  I  may  not 
need  an  overcoat  after  Thursday." 

She  was  in  the  act  of  passing  him  his  coffee, 
and  her  hand  shook  so  that  the  saucer  was  quite 
flooded.  Anson  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
saucer  back  into  the  cup,  suppressing  his  annoy- 
ance. He  hated  to  have  his  coffee  slopped,  but 
he  never  found  fault  with  his  mother.  He  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  very  considerate  son. 

They  made  up  a  bed  for  him  in  the  little  old 
sitting-room,  where  most  of  the  evenings  of  his 
life  had  been  spent.  And  his  chief  feeling,  as  he 
laid  himself  down  upon  the  bed,  was  one  of  regret 
that  he  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  retain  his  con- 
sciousness, and  be  a  witness  to  the  skill  of  his 
young  surgeon.  He  watched  him  with  the  great- 
est interest  before  the  ether  was  administered. 
He  liked  the  precision  of  the  young  man's  move- 
ments, the  clearness  of  his  glance,  the  unobtru- 
sive self-confidence  of  his  manner.  He  heard  Dr. 
Morse  ask  his  mother  to  leave  the  room,  and  his 


1 72  Pratt  Portraits. 

eyes  did  not  follow  her  retreating  figure,  nor  did 
he  see  the  look  she  gave  him  as  she  turned  away. 

An  hour  later  three  figures  sat  beside  the  bed, 
waiting  for  signs  of  returning  consciousness.  Dr. 
Morse,  his  gray  head  bent  and  his  shaggy  eye- 
brows meeting,  regarded  the  patient  with  calm 
watchfulness.  The  glance  and  attitude  of  the 
young  physician  were  intense  and  eager.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  bed,  close  to  the  wall,  sat  a  small, 
erect  figure  ;  the  face,  with  a  pinched  look  on  it, 
showing  sharp-cut  against  the  wall-paper,  on 
which  gaily  dressed  shepherdesses  smirked  and 
courtesied.  Jane  Bennett's  sharp  black  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  closed  lids  of  her  son.  When 
Anson  moved  slightly,  as  he  did  several  times 
before  the  lids  were  raised,  she  started  eagerly 
forward  ;  but  when  at  last  he  opened  his  eyes,  it 
was  toward  his  old  friend  that  they  were  turned. 

"Well,  Doctor,"  he  said,  in  a  feeble  voice, 
*•  how  did  the  operation  go  ?  " 

1 '  Splendidly, ' '  said  Dr.  Morse.  * '  Splendidly  ! 
But  don't  exert  yourself  to  talk." 

With  a  look  of  perfect  content  the  sick  man 
closed  his  eyes. 

For  many  hours  Anson  seemed  to  be  sleeping 
peacefully.  Yet  to  the  mother's  perception,  no 
less  than  to  the  trained  eye  of  the  physician,  it 
was  clear  that  his  life  was  ebbing. 

The  day  wore  away  and  night  came  on,  and 
still  the  two  men  watched  beside  him  ;  and  still 
that  small  rigid  figure  kept  guard  between  the 


A  New  England  Conscience.        173 

bed  and  the  pictured  shepherdesses.  Once  or 
twice  the  doctors  asked  some  service  of  her,  which 
she  performed  swiftly  and  exactly,  after  which  she 
slipped  back  to  her  disregarded  post. 

Just  after  midnight  Anson  opened  his  eyes 
once  more,  and  smiled  faintly.  Dr.  Morse  bent 
toward  him. 

"  Bennett,"  he  said,  with  a  compassionate  look 
toward  the  mother,  ' '  Bennett,  this  has  been  a  great 
strain  upon  your  system.  It  is  only  fair  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  possible  that  you  may  not  pull  through." 

*  *  Tell  me  again, ' '  the  patient  questioned,  *  *  was 
there  anything  wrong  about  the  operation  ? ' ' 

"The  operation  was  magnificent,"  his  friend 
declared,  * '  but  you  don't  seem  to  have  the  vitality 
you  need." 

'  *  That 's  no  account,  Doctor,  that 's  no  account. ' ' 
The  dying  man's  voice  was  almost  querulous. 
"  The  operation  's  the  thing.  That 's  all  we  care 
about." 

Then  turning  to  Bllery  he  added,  half  apolo- 
getically :  * (  You  see,  Doctor,  I  once  did  a  little 
doctoring  myself,  and  I  've  kept  up  my  interest  in 
these  things. ' ' 

His  mother  put  her  hand  on  his,  and  he  looked 
at  her  wonderingly. 

"  Why,  mother,"  he  said.  "  You  up  so  late? 
Had  n't  you  better  go  to  bed  ?  " 

Toward  morning  he  rallied  once  more,  and 
signed  to  Ellery  to  come  nearer.  The  young  man 
bent  a  grave  face  to  listen. 


1 74  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Dr.  Kllery,"  said  Bennett  slowly.  "Don't 
you  worry  because  you '  ve  lost  a  patient.  You  've 
done  your  part  magnificently.  Did  n't  you  hear 
Dr.  Morse  say  so  ?  Magnificently  !  And  he  's  a 
good  judge — I  tell  you — he 's — a — good— judge. ' ' 

His  voice  wavered  a  little  on  these  last  words, 
as  though  the  thought  were  eluding  him.  His 
mind  had  evidently  wandered. 

And  Jane  Bennett,  whose  self-assertion  had 
never  before  failed  her,  only  sat  there,  with  a 
piteous,  drawn  look  about  her  lips,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  tranquil  face  which  did  not  turn  toward 
hers.  Dr.  Morse  had  grasped  the  patient's  hand, 
and  bent  down  to  hear  what  he  might  say.  The 
sick  man's  eyes  were  open,  and  there  was  a 
strange,  remote  look  in  them.  Suddenly  a  change 
came,  his  face  lighted  up,  and  he  whispered 
eagerly : 

1 '  See  !  See  !  Apple-blossoms  ! ' '  And  with 
their  fragrance  on  his  spirit,  Anson  Bennett  died. 

Then,  too  late  to  reach  his  ears,  a  voice  sharp 
with  agony  cried : 

"  Anson  !  O  Anson  !  You  forgot  your  mother ! " 


vin. 
THE  SCHOOIvMARM. 

A  DISAGREEABLE  sensation  was  caused 
/\  throughout  the  entire  Pratt  family  when 
1  *•  Mary  William  announced  her  intention 
of  "  keeping  school."  Old  Lady  Pratt, 
who  knew  the  history  of  the  family  ever  since  she 
came  into  it,  some  sixty  years  before,  could  testify 
that  no  daughter  of  that  highly  respectable  house 
had  ever  "worked  for  a  living."  An  unpreju- 
diced observer  might  have  thought  that  Old  Lady 
Pratt  herself  had  worked  for  a  living,  and  worked 
harder  than  any  school-teacher,  all  through  the 
childhood  of  her  six  boys  and  girls.  But  that,  of 
course,  was  a  different  matter,  as  anybody  must 
understand.  A  woman  toiling  early  and  late  for 
husband  and  children  was  but  fulfilling  the  chief 
end  and  aim  of  her  being,  but  a  woman  who  set 
out  to  wrest  a  living  from  the  world,  when  she 
"need  want  for  nothing  at  home,"  was  clearly 
flying  in  the  face  of  Providence. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  she  said  to  her  grand-daughter, 
"you  must  not  expect  me  to  countenance  any 
such  step." 

J75 


176  Pratt  Portraits. 

11  Why  not,  Grandma  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Because  I  don't  approve  of  young 
women  gettin'  dissatisfied  with  the  sphere  to 
which  they  've  been  called.  That 's  why  not." 

"But  I  have  n't  been  called  to  any  sphere. 
Now  that  Bessie  and  Willie  are  almost  as  grown 
up  as  I  am,  mother  does  n't  need  me  any  more, 
and  I  don't  see  why  I  'm  not  entitled  to  a  change 
if  I  want  one." 

"If  you  want  a  change,"  said  Grandma, 
promptly  ;  * €  you  '  d  much  better  get  married. ' ' 

"  Now,  Grandma  !  You  know  well  enough 
that  I  never  had  an  offer.  If  I  had,  you  'd  have 
heard  of  it  fast  enough." 

"And  you  don't  deserve  to  have  one,"  cried 
the  old  lady,  with  asperity,  ' '  if  you  go  and  spile 
everything  by  turning  schoolmarm. " 

This  was  a  sore  subject  with  Old  Lady  Pratt. 
She,  who  was  the  sworn  foe  to  single  blessedness, 
had  constantly  to  hear  that  her  own  grand- 
daughters had  "never  had  an  offer."  It  was 
not  that  they  were  less  sought  than  other  girls  of 
their  age,  but  early  marriages  had  almost  gone 
out  of  fashion  since  Grandma's  day,  and  many  a 
handsome  girl  might  get  to  be  well  on  in  the 
twenties  before  a  serious  suitor  made  his  ap- 
pearance. 

Mary  William — so  called  to  distinguish  her 
from  her  Uncle  Anson's  daughter,  who  went  by 
the  name  of  Mary  Anson— Mary  William  was  at 
this  time  twenty-one  years  of  age.  Her  father,  the 


The  Sckoolmarm.  1 77 

hero  of  the  family,  had  been  killed  at  the  first  bat- 
tle of  Bull  Run,  six  years  previous.  He  had  left 
his  affairs,  what  there  was  of  them,  in  such  per- 
fect order  that  his  widow  knew  precisely  what  she 
had  to  depend  upon — a  fact  on  which  all  the  Pratts 
laid  great  emphasis.  But  to  know  one's  financial 
status,  if  that  status  chance  to  be  extremely  low, 
is  scarcely  compensation  for  hardships  and  priva- 
tions, and  Mrs.  William  Pratt  used  fervently  to 
wish  that  there  had  been  just  sufficient  inaccuracy 
in  her  husband's  accounts  to  leave  a  margin  of 
possibility  that  a  windfall  might  yet  occur. 

Mrs.  William  Pratt  was  not  a  woman  of  much 
energy  or  resource.  She  had  a  few  fixed  ideas, 
one  of  them  being  that  she  could  not  consent  to 
'  *  come  down  in  the  world. ' '  Coming  down  in 
the  world  meant  to  her  comprehension  renting  or 
selling  the  commodious,  well-built  house  in  which 
her  husband  had  installed  her  during  the  days  of 
their  prosperity,  and  moving  into  smaller  quar- 
ters. Her  house  was  Edna  Pratt's  special  pride. 
It  was  large  and  rambling,  with  a  front  hall 
which  did  not  confine  itself  to  the  manifest  mis- 
sion of  furnishing  a  landing-place  from  the  stairs, 
but  spread  itself  out  into  an  octagonal  space, 
wherein  pillars  stood  supporting  arches ;  a  dim 
ancestral-looking  hall,  which  could  not  fail  to 
impress  a  stranger.  But  as  strangers  rarely  visited 
Mrs.  William  Pratt,  and  as  nearly  all  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  house  distinctly  remembered  its 
erection  a  dozen  or  more  years  previous,  the  hall 


176  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  Why  not,  Grandma  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Because  I  don't  approve  of  young 
women  gettin'  dissatisfied  with  the  sphere  to 
which  they  've  been  called.  That  's  why  not." 

"But  I  have  n't  been  called  to  any  sphere. 
Now  that  Bessie  and  Willie  are  almost  as  grown 
up  as  I  am,  mother  does  n't  need  me  any  more, 
and  I  don't  see  why  I  'm  not  entitled  to  a  change 
if  I  want  one." 

"If  you  want  a  change,"  said  Grandma, 
promptly  ;  "you  'd  much  better  get  married." 

"  Now,  Grandma  !  You  know  well  enough 
that  I  never  had  an  offer.  If  I  had,  you  'd  have 
heard  of  it  fast  enough. ' ' 

"And  you  don't  deserve  to  have  one,"  cried 
the  old  lady,  with  asperity,  ' '  if  you  go  and  spile 
everything  by  turning  schoolmarm. ' ' 

This  was  a  sore  subject  with  Old  L,ady  Pratt. 
She,  who  was  the  sworn  foe  to  single  blessedness, 
had  constantly  to  hear  that  her  own  grand- 
daughters had  "never  had  an  offer."  It  was 
not  that  they  were  less  sought  than  other  girls  of 
their  age,  but  early  marriages  had  almost  gone 
out  of  fashion  since  Grandma's  day,  and  many  a 
handsome  girl  might  get  to  be  well  on  in  the 
twenties  before  a  serious  suitor  made  his  ap- 
pearance. 

Mary  William — so  called  to  distinguish  her 
from  her  Uncle  Anson's  daughter,  who  went  by 
the  name  of  Mary  Anson— Mary  William  was  at 
this  time  twenty-one  years  of  age.  Her  father,  the 


The  Schoolmarm.  1 77 

hero  of  the  family,  had  been  killed  at  the  first  bat- 
tle of  Bull  Run,  six  years  previous.  He  had  left 
his  affairs,  what  there  was  of  them,  in  such  per- 
fect order  that  his  widow  knew  precisely  what  she 
had  to  depend  upon — a  fact  on  which  all  the  Pratts 
laid  great  emphasis.  But  to  know  one's  financial 
status,  if  that  status  chance  to  be  extremely  low, 
is  scarcely  compensation  for  hardships  and  priva- 
tions, and  Mrs.  William  Pratt  used  fervently  to 
wish  that  there  had  been  just  sufficient  inaccuracy 
in  her  husband's  accounts  to  leave  a  margin  of 
possibility  that  a  windfall  might  yet  occur. 

Mrs.  William  Pratt  was  not  a  woman  of  much 
energy  or  resource.  She  had  a  few  fixed  ideas, 
one  of  them  being  that  she  could  not  consent  to 
"come  down  in  the  world."  Coming  down  in 
the  world  meant  to  her  comprehension  renting  or 
selling  the  commodious,  well-built  house  in  which 
her  husband  had  installed  her  during  the  days  of 
their  prosperity,  and  moving  into  smaller  quar- 
ters. Her  house  was  Edna  Pratt 's  special  pride. 
It  was  large  and  rambling,  with  a  front  hall 
which  did  not  confine  itself  to  the  manifest  mis- 
sion of  furnishing  a  landing-place  from  the  stairs, 
but  spread  itself  out  into  an  octagonal  space, 
wherein  pillars  stood  supporting  arches ;  a  dim 
ancestral-looking  hall,  which  could  not  fail  to 
impress  a  stranger.  But  as  strangers  rarely  visited 
Mrs.  William  Pratt,  and  as  nearly  all  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  house  distinctly  remembered  its 
erection  a  dozen  or  more  years  previous,  the  hall 


1 80  Pratt  Portraits. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  ridiculous  idea,"  said 
Mrs.  William  Pratt. 

"I  don't  see  anything  ridiculous  about  it," 
Mary  retorted,  giving  vent  to  her  feelings  with 
unprecedented  freedom.  "I  've  been  scrimping 
and  pinching  and  slaving  all  my  life,  and  now  I 
want  to  try  how  it  feels  to  have  a  few  dollars  of 
my  own." 

"A  few  dollars  of  your  own!"  cried  her 
mother.  "  Why,  Mary,  what  an  ungrateful  girl 
you  are  !  Does  n't  your  Aunt  Harriet  give  you 
twenty-five  dollars  every  single  birthday  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Harriet  is  very  kind  ;  but  twenty- 
five  dollars  is  n't  what  you  would  call  an  ample 
income. ' ' 

"  But  you  have  more  than  that  to  spend,  and 
your  living  not  costing  you  a  cent  either  !  " 

"No;  neither  does  her  living  cost  Bridget  a 
cent"  ;  and  then  Mary  William  stopped,  and  did 
not  pursue  the  comparison,  an  act  of  forbearance 
which  should  be  recorded  to  her  credit. 

After  breakfast  sixteen-year-old  Bessie  came 
up  to  her  with  wondering  eyes,  and  said,  ' '  Mary, 
do  you  suppose  you  '11  get  rich  teaching  school  ?  " 

"  Not  very  rich,  puss." 

11 1  wish  there  were  some  way  of  getting  rich, 
don't  you?" 

4 'Indeed  I  do,  Bessie." 

"  What  would  you  do,  Mary,  if  you  were  rich  ? ' ' 

"  I  should  sail  for  Europe  next  week ;  and  I 
should  send  Willie  to  college  when  it  came  time." 


The  Schoolmarm.  181 

"And  me?" 

' '  You  ? ' '  said  Mary,  looking  thoughtfully  at 
her  pretty  little  sister.  ' '  I  would  give  you  every 
single  thing  you  wanted. ' ' 

This  feeling  for  Bessie,  that  she  was  a  creature 
born  to  have  every  wish  gratified,  was  common 
to  all  who  knew  the  child.  Mary  had  no  fear 
that  in  the  event  of  her  leaving  home  she 
should  shift  the  burden  of  household  drudgery  on 
to  her  younger  sister's  shoulders.  Even  Mrs. 
William  Pratt  would  not  have  made  Bessie  work. 

Now  Mrs.  William  Pratt,  though  a  weak 
woman,  and  both  vain  and  selfish,  was  much 
respected  in  her  husband's  family.  All  were 
grateful  to  her  for  having  kept  up  appearances  on 
so  small  an  income,  and  the  fact  that  this  had 
been  done  at  her  daughter  Mary's  expense  was 
not  wholly  understood,  even  by  her  sharp-eyed 
mother-in-law.  Hence,  when  she  raised  a  cry  of 
indignation  at  Mary's  revolutionary  behavior,  she 
was  sustained  by  a  full  chorus  of  disapproval 
from  the  whole  clan. 

Nevertheless  Mary  carried  her  point.  Her 
venture  was  successful  beyond  her  hopes.  She 
had  not  led  her  class  in  the  high  school  for 
nothing.  No  sooner  had  she  made  known  her 
intentions  than  she  was  offered  the  position  of 
assistant  in  the  grammar-school  of  her  own  dis- 
trict, with  the  munificent  salary  of  $350. 

Singularly  enough,  her  actual  engagement  as  a 
teacher  wrought  an  entire  change  in  the  feelings 


1 82  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  the  family.  It  was  like  the  first  plunge  into 
cold  water.  The  family  pride  had  shrunk  from 
it,  but  a  reaction  set  in  almost  immediately,  and 
that  same  family  pride  experienced  a  glow  of 
gratification  that  one  of  their  number  should  be 
so  capable  and  so  well  thought  of.  Small  as  was 
the  sum  which  Mary  was  to  receive  for  her  ser- 
vices, it  was  relatively  large — large  measured  by 
her  previous  limitations.  Her  more  prosperous 
relatives  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the  ex- 
tremely small  income  which  the  William  Pratts 
had  to  live  upon  that  they  had  come  to  regard  it 
as  quite  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  and  to  bear 
it  with  philosophical  indifference.  Now,  how- 
ever, that  Mary  had  taken  matters  into  her  own 
hands,  and  was  prepared  to  mould  her  own  for- 
tunes, they  rejoiced  with  her  as  loudly  as  though 
they  had  hitherto  realized  her  deprivations. 

Old  Lady  Pratt  alone  withheld  her  approval. 
The  fact  of  Mary's  having  a  little  more  money 
seemed  to  her  to  be  of  small  consequence  in  com- 
parison with  the  girl's  "prospects."  She  was 
made  of  sterner  stuff"  than  her  descendants  ;  she 
knew  deprivation  and  hard  work  by  heart,  and 
she  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  them  for  herself 
or  for  anybody  else.  Even  when  Mrs.  William 
Pratt  told  her  that  Mary  had  offered  to  pay  three 
dollars  a  week  for  the  "  girl's  "  wages,  Old  I^ady 
Pratt  remained  obdurate. 

"Nonsense,  Edna!"  she  said,  sharply.  "It 
would  n't  hurt  you  a  mite  to  do  your  own  work. 


The  Schoolmarm.  183 

You  'd  a  sight  better  do  it  than  to  have  Mary 
turn  out  an  old  maid.  There  's  Eliza  Pelham, 
now.  She  acted  jest  so  when  she  was  Mary's 
age,  and  she  '11  teach  school  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  She  got  so  set  in  her  ways  and  so  high- 
flyin'  in  her  notions  that  the  Gov'nor  himself 
would  n't  have  suited  her.  You  mark  my  words, 
Mary  '11  be  an  old  maid,  jest  like  Kliza.  You  see 
'f  she  ain't." 

And  if  Mary  herself  had  been  asked,  she  would 
have  been  the  first  to  admit  the  reasonableness  of 
her  grandmother's  predictions.  She  had  never 
been  so  happy  in  her  life  as  she  was  the  day  on 
which  she  stepped  upon  the  platform  at  school 
and  assumed  the  responsibilities  of  '  *  school- 
marm.  ' '  Mary  William  loved  to  teach,  and  she 
loved  also  to  rule — an  art  which  she  understood 
to  perfection.  There  were  some  pretty  black 
sheep  among  her  flock,  but  before  she  had  had 
them  a  month  they  had  learned  a  lesson  in 
wholesome  discipline  which  seemed  to  them 
much  more  incontrovertible  than  anything  Mur- 
ray had  to  say  against  alliances  between  plural 
subjects  and  singular  verbs,  or  any  of  Greenleaf  s 
arithmetical  theories.  The  new  teacher's  success 
made  so  strong  an  impression  upon  the  school 
committee  that  by  Christmas- time  Miss  Pratt 's 
name  was  mentioned  in  connection  with  a  $500 
vacancy  to  occur  the  coming  year  in  the  high- 
school.  Meanwhile  Mary  revelled  in  her  inde- 
pendence ;  and  if  she  thought  of  matrimony  in 


184  Pratt  Portraits. 

connection  with  herself,  it  was  as  a  state  of  bond- 
age to  be  avoided  at  any  cost. 

One  pleasant  day  in  April  the  young  teacher 
had  just  dismissed  a  class  in  compound  fractions, 
and  sat  looking  down  upon  the  motley  collection 
of  boys  and  girls  arranged  with  geometrical  sym- 
metry over  the  large  room.  She  was  aware  of  a 
spirit  of  restlessness  among  them.  There  were 
more  boys  than  usual  engaged  in  the  time-hon- 
ored custom  of  twisting  their  legs  in  intricate  pat- 
terns about  the  legs  of  their  chairs,  more  girls 
gazing  dreamily  at  the  budding  tree-tops  just  visi- 
ble through  the  high  windows.  Mary  knew  by  her 
own  uneven  pulse  that  the  seeds  were  sprouting 
in  the  ground  outside,  and  that  the  spring  trouble 
was  stirring  in  the  veins  of  all  that  youthful  con- 
course. Mary  William  was  in  some  respects  wise 
beyond  her  years,  and  she  did  not  reprove  the 
vagaries  of  boyish  legs  and  girlish  eyes.  But  she 
kept  a  careful  watch  upon  them  during  the  study 
hour  which  preceded  the  long  noon  recess. 

Just  before  twelve  o'clock  she  was  surprised  by 
the  entrance  of  two  well-dressed  ladies  who  did 
not  look  quite  like  products  of  Dunbridge  soil. 
As  she  went  forward  to  meet  them  they  called  her 
by  name,  the  more  stately  of  the  two  introducing 
herself  as  Mrs.  Beardsley,  of  Stanton.  Mary 
William,  though  somewhat  mystified,  bade  her 
guests  welcome  with  a  very  good  grace,  saying 
that  she  was  on  the  point  of  dismissing  the  school. 

The  dispersion  of  the  fifty  or  more  boys  and 


THE  SCHOOi-MAHM 


The  Schoolmarrn.  185 

girls  was  a  matter  of  some  ceremony — a  ceremony 
regulated  by  a  succession  of  strokes  on  the  teach- 
er's bell,  and  usually  very  strictly  observed.  At 
a  certain  critical  point  in  the  proceedings  to-day, 
of  all  days  of  the  year,  the  boys  broke  loose,  and 
made  a  stampede  for  the  door,  the  girls  remaining 
in  the  aisles,  with  their  arms  crossed  behind  them 
— models  of  propriety  before  company.  Mary 
William's  face  flushed  brightly,  and  she  struck 
the  shrill  bell  three  times  in  rapid  succession. 
Instantly  the  rabble  of  unruly  boys  stood  trans- 
fixed. Two  or  three  of  them  who  had  already 
escaped  into  the  sunshine  came  sneaking  back  at 
the  peremptory  summons,  while  Mary  William's 
voice,  with  a  bell-like  ring  in  it,  said  :  ' '  Boys, 
return  to  your  seats  ! ' ' 

When  all  the  boys'  seats  were  filled  with  more 
or  less  contrite  occupants,  the  order  of  exercises 
was  resumed  on  the  part  of  the  girls,  who  filed 
quietly  out  of  the  room.  Then  Mary  turned  to 
her  guests  in  a  disengaged  manner,  with  the  as- 
surance that  she  was  quite  at  their  service.  A 
momentous  conversation  ensued. 

Mrs.  Beardsley  stated  that  she  was  the  Mrs. 
Beardsley  whose  school  for  young  ladies  had  so 
long  maintained  its  reputation  as  the  leading 
school  for  young  ladies  in  the  state.  Miss  Pratt 
had  doubtless  heard  of  Mrs.  Beardsley 's  school 
for  young  ladies.  Miss  Pratt  was  very  sorry,  but 
she  was  totally  ignorant  of  any  young  ladies' 
school  whatever  outside  her  own  town. 


1 86  Pratt  Portraits. 

Mary  had  the  discrimination  to  perceive  that 
Mrs.  Beardsley  was  a  thorough  woman  of  the 
world,  and  that  she  thought  extremely  well  of 
herself.  Nevertheless,  she  listened  with  entire 
self-possession  to  the  revelations  which  followed. 

Mrs.  Beardsley  was  in  search  of  a  teacher  to 
fill  the  place  in  the  coming  year  of  a  valued  as- 
sistant about  to  retire.  She  had  heard  Miss  Pratt 
well  spoken  of  by  her  cousin,  the  Rev.  Mr.  In- 
graham,  of  Dunbridge,  and  she  had  come,  with 
her  sister,  Miss  Ingraham,  to  interview  Miss  Pratt. 
Miss  Pratt  signified  her  willingness  to  be  inter- 
viewed, asking  permission  at  the  same  time  to  dis- 
miss the  culprits,  whose  durance  she  considered 
to  have  been  sufficiently  long.  This  time  the  dis- 
persion was  performed  with  a  precision  which  an 
army  sergeant  might  have  envied.  As  the  door 
closed  behind  the  last  round  jacket,  Mrs.  Beards- 
ley  resumed  the  thread  of  her  discourse  : 

"My  requirements,  Miss  Pratt,  are  somewhat 
severe.  My  school  has  a  reputation  to  sustain, 
which  necessitates  rather  exceptional  qualifica- 
tions in  my  assistants.  The  sort  of  discipline,  for 
instance,  which  you  have  just  carried  out  so  suc- 
cessfully with  those  rough  boys,  would  be  entirely 
out  of  place  in  a  school  whose  members  are  young 
ladies  from  the  first  families  in  the  state.  Tact 
and  worldly  wisdom  are  essential  in  the  govern- 
ment of  such  a  body.  Having  no  doubt  of  your 
acquirements  as  a  mere  teacher  of  the  branches 
desired — namely,  I^atin  and  mathematics — I  am 


TTie  Schoolmarm.  187 

disposed  to  dwell  more  especially  upon  my  exac- 
tions of  a  social  nature.  A  teacher  in  my  school 
must  have  the  good-breeding  and  the  equanimity 
of  a  lady,  and,  pardon  my  suggestion,  she  must 
dress  in  perfect  taste." 

Mary  flushed  slightly,  being  conscious  of  the 
ugliness  of  her  gown,  which  had  descended  to 
her  from  a  cousin  whose  means  exceeded  her  dis- 
cretion in  matters  of  taste. 

Mrs.  Beardsley,  having  paused  a  moment,  that 
the  full  weight  of  her  words  might  take  effect, 
asked,  "  Do  you  feel,  Miss  Pratt,  that  you  are 
fitted  in  every  particular  to  fill  such  a  position  ?  " 

The  flush  on  Mary's  face  had  subsided,  and  to 
her  own  surprise  she  did  not  flinch.  She  raised 
her  clear  hazel  eyes  to  those  of  her  catechist,  and 
with  a  direct  gaze,  in  which  there  was  unmistaka- 
ble power,  she  said,  quietly,  "Yes,  Mrs.  Beards- 
ley,  I  do." 

Mrs.  Beardsley  returned  the  girl's  look  with  an 
accession  of  interest.  The  ' '  woman  of  the  world  ' ' 
was  not  a  creature  of  impulse,  but  she  was  a  stu- 
dent of  character,  and,  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, she  said,  * '  I  engage  you. ' ' 

'  *  Thank  you, ' '  said  the  new  assistant,  as  though 
the  conversation  were  ended. 

Mrs.  Beardsley  and  Miss  Ingraham  exchanged 
glances,  and  waited  for  Mary's  next  remark;  but 
it  was  not  forthcoming.  Mary  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  have  forgotten  herself.  She  was  look- 
ing about  the  homely  room  where  she  had  served 


1 88  Pratt  Portraits. 

her  short  apprenticeship,  lost  in  wonder  over  her 
sudden  good  fortune.  Mary  William  was  deeply 
impressed  by  Mrs.  Beardsley's  personality.  She 
had  always  wanted  to  have  a  taste  of  the  *  *  great 
world. ' '  She  loved  the  amenities  of  life,  she 
loved  the  power  which  social  training  gives,  and 
to  her  unsophisticated  mind  it  seemed  as  though 
a  school  presided  over  by  Mrs.  Beardsley — a  school 
where  were  gathered  the  daughters  of  the  * '  first 
families  in  the  state" — must  offer  an  opening 
through  which  she  might  get  at  least  a  peep  into 
that  same  great  world. 

Finding  her  future  assistant  disinclined  to  take 
the  initiative,  Mrs.  Beardsley  said,  "You  have 
asked  me  nothing  about  terms,  Miss  Pratt. ' ' 

* '  Oh  yes  !  Terms  ! ' '  answered  Mary  William, 
recalled  to  practical  affairs,  in  which  she  felt  no 
sentimental  lack  of  interest. 

"That  is,  of  course,  in  a  certain  sense,  my  af- 
fair," Mrs.  Beardsley  resumed  ;  "  but  I  should  be 
curious  to  know  your  ideas  on  the  subject.'* 

Mary  looked  at  her  shrewdly.  '  *  I  suppose  the 
salary  would  be  proportionate  to  the  require- 
ments, ' '  she  said. 

"A  very  reasonable  supposition,"  Mrs.  Beards- 
ley  admitted.  '  *  Then  we  will  come  to  the  point. 
As  only  a  small  number  of  my  pupils  live  in  my 
family,  I  shall  not  require  your  services  there. 
You  will,  therefore,  be  at  some  expense  for  your 
living,  and  I  had  thought  of  offering  you ' ' — she 
paused  a  moment  to  notice  whether  the  girl 


The  Schoolmarm.  189 

looked  eager,  but  Mary  William  gave  no  sign — 
"twelve  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  Should  you 
think  that  a  fair  compensation  ?  ' ' 

Mary's  eyes  sparkled.  Touched  by  the  gener- 
osity of  such  an  offer  to  a  mere  grammar-school 
teacher,  she  cried,  impulsively,  "  I  ought  to  be  a 
better  teacher  than  I  am,  to  be  worth  all  that  to 
you." 

Mrs.  Beardsley  was  gratified,  but  she  only  said, 
"  If  you  are  not  worth  that,  you  are  worth 
nothing  to  me. ' ' 

Mrs.  Beardsley  had  gone  out  in  search  of  a 
"treasure,"  and  she  had  found  one.  As  for 
Mary  William,  she  had  set  forth  on  an  errand 
almost  as  humble  as  Saul's,  and,  like  him,  she 
suddenly  found  herself  endowed — to  her  own 
thinking — with  a  kingdom. 

All  summer  long  Mary  spent  much  of  her  time 
in  fashioning  tasteful  garments,  wherein  to  meet 
one,  at  least,  of  Mrs.  Beardsley 's  requirements, 
and  her  needle  went  in  and  out  as  gayly  as  though 
set  to  music. 

Her  friends  told  her  of  proposed  journey  ings  or 
weeks  to  be  spent  at  the  seaside,  but  she  envied 
none  of  them.  What  were  a  few  weeks  of  pleas- 
uring compared  to  the  gift  of  liberty  to  live 
your  own  life  in  your  own  way  ?  As  she  tried  on 
one  completed  garment  after  another,  examining 
the  effect  critically  in  the  glass,  she  thought  of 
Mrs.  Beardsley  and  of  that  formidable  band  of 
school-girls,  and  she  took  heart  of  hope. 


1 90  Pratt  Portraits. 

One  day  she  stood  before  her  mirror,  arrayed  in 
a  claret-colored  cashmere,  which  was  to  be  her 
' '  Sunday  gown  ' '  in  the  coming  winter.  There 
was  a  trimming  of  velvet  ribbon  which  was  highly 
effective,  and  the  broad  tatting  collar  was  very 
becoming  to  the  round  white  throat  within  it. 
Mary  studied  the  dress  with  some  satisfaction, 
and  then  she  inadvertently  looked  up  at  her 
reflected  face.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
was  struck  with  her  own  good  looks,  and  her 
eyes  danced  with  pleasure.  Mrs.  Beardsley  would 
be  more  likely  to  approve  her,  the  school-girls 
would  perhaps  like  her,  if  she  looked  like  that. 
She  smiled  at  herself,  and  the  pretty  teeth  thus 
revealed  added  greatly  to  the  favorable  impres- 
sion. 

11  How  absurd  I  am  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  and 
she  laughed  aloud.  She  had  never  seen  her 
laughing  face  before.  It  had  been  a  prematurely 
serious  countenance  which  she  had  associated 
with  herself.  "Oh,  is  n't  it  delicious  to  be 
alive?"  she  exclaimed,  confidingly,  to  her  own 
image. 

If  vanity  is  pleasure  in  one's  own  good  points, 
Mary  William  was  rapidly  developing  her  share 
of  it.  But  the  beauty  and  originality  of  her 
vanity  consisted  in  the  turn  it  took.  It  looked 
only  to  pleasing  a  middle-aged  woman  and  a 
school  full  of  young  girls,  and,  as  such  well-regu- 
lated vanity  deserved,  it  was  crowned  with  suc- 
cess. 


The  Sc/wolmarm.  191 

The  first  week  in  September — for  schools  began 
earlier  in  Mary  William's  day  than  in  ours — 
Mrs.  Beardsley's  "treasure"  arrived  upon  the 
scene,  and  took  all  hearts  by  storm.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  say  whether  the  exhilaration  of  her 
spirits  made  the  new  teacher  charming,  or  whether 
her  almost  instant  popularity  was  the  secret  of 
that  same  exhilaration.  Such  things  go  hand  in 
hand.  Certain  it  is  that  Mary  William  lived 
in  a  round  of  pleasures  far  more  stimulating, 
and  far  more  satisfying  too,  than  the  pleasures 
usually  thus  designated.  She  loved  her  work  so 
thoroughly  that  its  very  difficulties  but  lent  it 
zest.  She  liked  the  girls,  and  she  regarded  Mrs. 
Beardsley  with  the  enthusiastic  devotion  felt  by  a 
subaltern  for  his  superior  officer. 

And  so  the  first  school  term  went  by  only  too 
swiftly,  and  the  long  Christmas  vacation  came  as 
an  unwelcome  interruption.  How  much  more 
unwelcome  would  it  have  been  had  Mary  William 
known  what  it  held  in  store  for  her  !  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  unlocked  for,  nothing  could 
have  been  to  Mary  more  unwished  for,  than  the 
events  which  followed  upon  the  arrival  from  his 
Western  ranch  of  the  minister's  son,  Fred  In- 
graham.  When  Mary  returned  home  for  the 
holidays,  he  had  been  in  Dunbridge  scarcely  a 
week,  and  had  not  yet  ceased  to  be  the  sensation 
of  the  hour. 

Fred  Ingraham  came  into  her  life  with  all  the 
freshness  and  insistency  of  a  prairie  breeze,  which 


1 92  Pratt  Portraits. 

goes  sweeping  across  level  leagues  unhindered  by 
any  obstacle,  unabashed  by  any  contrary  currents. 
This  minister's  son,  with  his  high-bred  features 
and  his  air  of  conscious  power,  belonged  to  the 
finest  type  of  ranchman.  In  him  many  of  the 
best  qualities  springing  from  the  old  civilization 
existed  side  by  side  with  the  spirit  and  vigor 
which  animate  the  pioneer.  There  was  not  lack- 
ing a  touch  of  the  absolute  monarch,  such  as  your 
genuine  ranchman  was  five-and-twenty  years  ago. 
Being,  then,  a  young  man  of  ready  decision  and 
of  hitherto  unalterable  determination,  no  sooner 
did  he  behold  the  little  girl  whom  he  had  patron- 
ized in  big-boy  fashion  a  few  years  previous, 
transformed  into  a  surprising  likeness  to  his 
secretly-cherished  ideal  of  a  woman,  than  he  fell 
precipitately  in  love  with  her.  There  was  no 
time  to  be  lost  in  preliminaries,  and  Fred  pressed 
his  suit  with  the  courage  and  persistency  which 
might  have  been  expected  of  an  absolute  monarch 
— to  say  nothing  of  a  Yankee  boy  accustomed  to 
deal  with  rough  cowboys  and  pitching  bronchos. 
Mary  was  at  first  thrown  off  her  guard  by  the 
very  suddenness  of  the  assault.  She  had  been 
predisposed  in  his  favor  by  all  she  knew  of  the 
daring  and  independence  of  his  course  in  break- 
ing loose  from  family  traditions  and  choosing  his 
own  rough  path  in  life.  She  looked  upon  him  as 
a  kindred  spirit,  and  they  had  many  a  long  talk 
and  more  than  one  walk  together  in  the  sparkling 
Christmas  weather  before  she  took  the  alarm. 


TTie  Schoolmarm.  193 

He  had  often  talked  to  her  of  ranch  life — so 
new  and  interesting  a  theme  in  those  early  days, 
before  the  cowboy  had  been  tamed  into  print. 
He  told  her  of  the  life  of  adventure  and  hardship 
which  he  had  known,  of  his  vast  herds  of  cattle, 
and  his  wide  domains.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
though  this  dominion  over  men  and  over  beasts 
had  conferred  upon  him  a  certain  patent  of  no- 
bility, and  she  listened  with  kindling  attention  to 
all  he  had  to  say.  But  if  he  seemed  to  her  to  be 
something  of  a  hero,  it  was  the  hero  of  a  realm 
as  remote  from  her  as  were  the  lands  of  the  Orient 
or  the  ages  of  the  past.  And  because  of  the  re- 
moteness and  foreignness  of  her  interest  hitherto, 
because  of  her  perfect  sense  of  aloofness  from  it  all, 
she  had  listened  without  suspicion  or  constraint. 

They  were  walking  home  together  from  the 
skating  pond  one  afternoon,  their  two  pairs  of 
skates  rattling  gayly  together  in  her  companion's 
hand,  making  a  pleasant  metallic  accompaniment 
to  his  narration. 

Suddenly  he  interrupted  himself  to  say:  "  Mary, 
you  would  like  ranch  life  immensely.  I  am  sure 
of  it.  Don't  you  think  you  would  ?  ' ' 

His  words  were  harmless  enough,  but  the  sud- 
den pleading  urgency  of  his  manner,  and  some- 
thing new  and  intensely  personal  in  his  tone, 
startled  her,  and  she  instantly  bristled. 

1 '  Oh,  yes  !  "  she  said.  ' '  I '  ve  no  doubt  I  should 
like  it  if  I  were  a  man.  But  it  must  be  a  hideous 

life  for  a  woman." 
13 


194  Pratt  Portraits. 

Fred  bore  the  rebuff  manfully,  though  it  felt  as 
grating  and  as  blinding  as  a  sudden  prairie  sand- 
storm. He  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  she 
walked  erect  and  strong  by  his  side.  A  more 
defiant-looking  young  person  he  had  never  seen, 
nor  a  more  altogether  desirable  one.  Good 
heavens  !  the  very  curve  of  her  chin  was  worth 
dying  for,  and  Fred  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
swore  within  himself  that  she  should  yet  be 
vanquished. 

The  rest  of  that  day  Mary  tried  vainly  to  be- 
lieve that  her  panic  had  been  foolish  and  uncalled 
for.  But  she  knew  better.  She  feared  that  it 
was  unmaidenly  and  conceited;  that  she  was  de- 
serving of  all  the  worst  epithets  usually  applied 
to  a  forward  girl;  but  she  knew  as  positively  as 
though  Fred  had  told  her  so  in  plain  Knglish 
that  this  remarkably  strong-willed  young  man 
was  planning  to  overturn  her  whole  scheme  of 
life,  to  wrest  from  her  her  precious  independence, 
to  make  her  life  subordinate  to  his.  She  would 
not  allow  herself  to  think  in  terms  less  harsh  of 
his  designs,  and  she  put  herself  on  the  defensive 
in  a  manner  so  transparent  that  it  would  have 
been  amusing  to  any  one  less  immediately  inter- 
ested in  her  state  of  mind  than  Fred. 

He  meanwhile  did  his  best  to  retrieve  that  first 
blunder  by  the  exercise  of  an  almost  superhuman 
discretion.  He  saw  his  opportunity  slipping 
away  with  the  fleeting  vacation  days ;  he  knew 
that  in  a  cruelly  short  time  Mary  would  be  once 


The  Schoolmarm.  195 

more  intrenched  in  her  beloved  work  tinder  the 
protection  of  that  much-respected  dragon  Mrs. 
Beardsley.  But  he  also  knew  that  her  mind,  if 
not  her  heart,  was  set  against  his  suit,  and  he  did 
not  dare  defy  her  openly.  They  met  less  fre- 
quently now,  Mary  having  developed  a  talent  for 
eluding  him  which  was  most  baffling.  She  seemed 
to  feel  a  new  interest  in  all  the  other  young  men 
and  maidens  of  her  acquaintance,  and  she  dis- 
tributed her  favors  with  an  irritating  impartiality. 
So  persistent  was  she  in  this  course  that  a  man 
less  accustomed  to  having  his  way,  or  with  less 
confidence  in  the  righteousness  of  his  cause,  might 
well  have  been  discouraged.  But  Fred  Ingraham 
had  that  deeply  rooted  faith  in  his  own  instincts 
which  a  life  spent  on  very  close  terms  with  nature, 
even  in  her  rougher  moods,  tends  to  develop.  He 
felt  that  it  was  not  "  in  the  nature  of  things  " — a 
favorite  expression  of  his — that  such  an  absolute, 
such  an  unquenchable,  such  an  altogether  reason- 
able love  as  his  for  Mary  should  waken  no  re- 
sponse. He  used  to  watch  her  as  she  moved 
about  in  company,  bestowing  her  frank  smile  and 
quick  sympathy  upon  indifferent  people,  and  in 
his  inmost  heart  he  said  : 

1 '  She  is  mine  !  I  am  the  only  person  on  earth 
who  knows  it,  but  she  belongs  to  me,  and  there 
is  no  escape  for  her." 

All  through  those  tedious  days  of  wasted 
opportunity  he  never  for  a  moment  questioned 
his  inalienable  right  in  the  woman  of  his  choice. 


1 96  Pratt  Portraits. 

Mary  meanwhile  did  not  consciously  yield  an 
inch.  Any  intruding  thoughts  of  this  lover, 
whose  very  existence  was  so  importunate,  she 
drowned  in  plans  which  had  a  peculiar  meaning 
and  fascination  for  her. 

' '  Summer  after  next, ' '  she  would  say  to  her- 
self, "  I  shall  go  abroad"  ;  and  she  marshalled 
all  the  wonders  and  delights  of  Europe  to  the 
support  of  her  resolution. 

A  needless  help  had  she  felt  as  certain  of  her- 
self as  she  thought  she  did.  Surely  Mary  Wil- 
liam was  the  last  girl  to  marry  any  man  out 
of  tenderness  for  his  feelings.  She  was  not  weak- 
ly soft-hearted.  Other  feelings  than  his  must 
have  been  involved  before  her  position  could  be 
thus  endangered.  The  story  of  Mary  William's 
reasonings  and  self-communings  during  that 
memorable  holiday  season  would  read  like  a  psy- 
chological treatise. 

The  last  night  of  the  old  year — which  was  also 
the  last  night  of  her  visit  at  home — was  to  be 
celebrated  with  a  ' '  social  gathering' '  at  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Ingraham's  house.  Mary  was  arrayed  for 
the  occasion  in  her  claret-colored  cashmere,  in- 
tending to  accompany  her  family  to  the  very 
stronghold  of  the  enemy,  when  a  sudden  misgiv- 
ing seized  her,  and  she  decided  not  to  go. 

"  You  may  say  I  have  a  headache,  if  you  like," 
she  told  her  mother. 

' '  But,  Mary,  it  will  never  do  to  leave  you  alone 
in  the  house.  You  know  Bridget  is  going  out, 


The  Schoolmarm.  197 

and  we  've  let  the  furnace  fire  go  down,  and  you  '11 
take  cold." 

"I  can  light  a  fire  in  the  hall  grate,"  said 
Mary.  '  *  That  will  make  the  house  warmer  when 
you  come  in.  Besides,  I  shall  go  to  bed  early." 

When  the  house  was  quite  empty,  Mary  moved 
a  small  table  up  before  the  fire,  placed  a  lighted 
lamp  upon  it,  and  armed  with  an  old  guide-book 
of  Switzerland,  which  she  had  borrowed  of  one  of 
her  cousins,  sat  down  to  a  cozy  evening.  Strange 
to  say,  the  book  did  not  seem  interesting,  the 
shadows  among  the  pillars  in  the  dimly-lighted 
hall  disturbed  her,  and,  worst  of  all,  she  found 
herself  thinking  of  Fred.  She  probably  should 
not  see  him  again  for  a  long  time  ;  there  would  be 
no  more  need  of  evasions,  no  more  reasonings 
with  herself.  She  had  a  feeling  that  she  had 
passed  through  a  time  of  probation,  and  a  certain 
lassitude  crept  over  her  which  was  soothing,  after 
the  perplexities  and  self-discipline  of  the  past  ten 
days.  She  let  her  thoughts  take  their  own  turn, 
knowing  well  where  they  would  tend.  It  was 
such  a  pity  about  Fred ;  he  was  so  much  nicer 
than  any  one  else.  Yes,  she  could  afford  to  say 
it,  now  that  it  was  all  over — she  liked  him  "  best 
of  anybody." 

"  Oh,  dear,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  with  a  hard, 
hungry  feeling  at  her  heart,  * '  I  wish  there  was  n't 
any  such  thing  as  marrying  !  " 

She  watched  the  blue  flames  dancing  on  top  of 
the  bed  of  coals,  and  the  little  rows  of  sparks  run- 


198  Pratt  Portraits. 

ning  along  the  soot  at  the  back  of  the  chimney — 
''folks  going  to  meeting,"  she  had  been  taught 
to  call  them.  Somehow  the  suggestion  of  a 
string  of  people  all  bound  for  the  same  place 
made  her  feel  cross. 

"  Everybody  's  always  doing  just  the  same  thing 
as  everybody  else.  It  is  so  tiresome  !  If  nobody 
else  had  ever  got  married,  Fred  would  never  have 
thought  of  anything  so  foolish  "  ;  and  then  she 
laughed  at  her  own  childishness.  She  would 
have  liked  to  cry  just  as  well  as  to  laugh,  but  she 
usually  drew  the  line  at  tears. 

It  must  have  been  about  nine  o'clock  when 
there  was  a  sharp  ring  at  the  door-bell.  Mary 
shuddered.  Was  it  some  midnight  marauder? 
Alas  !  her  forebodings  were  worse  than  that. 
Thieves  and  murderers  she  might  perhaps  know 
how  to  deal  with,  but  there  was  an  enemy  more  to 
be  dreaded  than  they.  The  bell  rang  a  second  time, 
reverberating  loudly  through  the  empty  house,  be- 
fore she  answered  it.  Her  worst  fears  were  realized. 

"  Why,  Fred,  is  that  you?  "  she  said,  holding 
the  door  half  open  in  a  gingerly  manner.  c '  Did 
mother  want  anything  ?  ' ' 

"  No.  It 's  I  that  want  something.  Are  n't 
you  going  to  invite  me  in  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  Come  in.  I  was  so  surprised! 
How  could  you  leave  your  party  ?  " 

"That  was  easy  enough.  I  just  walked  out  of 
the  room.  How  pleasant  it  looks  here  !  This  is 
the  hall  you  dislike  so  much.  Pity  you  should  I 


The  Schoolmarm.  199 

It  makes  an  uncommonly  good  setting.  And  the 
fire  is  so  pretty  !  I  don't  wonder  you  liked  it 
better  than  a  crowd  of  people.  We  burn  wood  at 
the  ranch — great  logs  four  feet  long.  They  make 
a  blaze  to  warm  the  very  cockles  of  your  heart. 
May  I  get  a  chair  ?  ' ' 

Mary  had  never  known  him  to  be  so  voluble, 
but  she  was  not  in  the  least  reassured  by  his  flow 
of  words. 

'  *  What  are  you  reading  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  sat 
down  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace. 

Her  fingers  still  clasped  the  red  book,  though 
she  had  not  opened  it  for  an  hour  past.  At  men- 
tion of  it,  she  recovered  herself. 

"It  is  Murray's  guide-book  of  Switzerland. 
Have  I  never  told  you  that  I  am  going  abroad 
summer  after  next  ?  ' ' 

'  *  Really  ?     How  enterprising  you  are  ! ' ' 

11  Oh,  it  can  be  easily  managed.  You  know  I 
have  quite  a  princely  income. ' ' 

"Mary,"  he  cried,  abruptly,  "give  up  your 
income,  give  up  Europe,  give  up  all  those  plans. 
Come  with  me  !  Not  now — of  course  you  could  n'  t 
— but  next  summer. ' ' 

She  shut  her  lips  firmly  together,  and  stared  at 
the  fire. 

"  See  !  "  he  went  on.  "  I  put  it  in  the  baldest 
words.  I  concede  everything  from  the  very  be- 
ginning. I  know  you  would  be  giving  up  every- 
thing you  care  for;  I  know  I  am  asking  a 
perfectly  tremendous  sacrifice. ' ' 


200  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Would  you  make  such  a  sacrifice  for  me?" 
she  asked,  in  a  hard,  dry  tone.  "  I  love  my  way 
of  life  just  as  well  as  you  do  yours.  Would  you 
give  up  your  ranch  and  come  and  teach  school 
with  me?" 

"  That 's  not  a  fair  question,  Mary.  You  might 
as  well  ask  if  I  would  wear  girl's  clothes  to  please 
you.  You  would  n't  respect  me  if  I  did." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  she  said, 
sharply  and  argumentatively.  It  did  not  sound 
like  her  pleasantly-modulated  voice.  "I  don't 
see  that  the  sacrifice  would  be  any  greater  for 
you  than  for  me.  My  work  and  my  ambitions 
are  just  as  necessary  to  me  as  yours  are  to  you. 
And  you  would  never  think  of  sacrificing  yours 
for  my  sake." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  that  there  is  anything  under 
heaven  that  I  wouldn't  do  for  you,  Mary,"  he 
cried,  impetuously.  "  But  that  is  something  you 
would  never  ask.  You  would  n't  be  yourself  if 
you  did.  Men  sacrifice  their  lives  for  women,  not 
their  careers.  It  would  not  be  in  the  nature  of 
things  for  you  to  ask  of  me  what  I  am  asking  of 
you. ' ' 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  he  was  sorry  he 
had  done  so.  Her  face  was  set  and  repellant.  But 
she  spoke  before  he  could  stop  her. 

"No,  Fred,  I  can't  do  it,"  she  said;  "and 
please  don't  talk  to  me  any  more.  Did  n't 
mother  say  I  had  a  headache  ?  ' ' 

"  As  though  I  believed  that !     I  don't  believe 


The  Schoolmarm.  201 

you  ever  had  a  headache  in  your  life.  And  sup- 
posing you  have  ?  What  is  a  headache,  I  should 
like  to  know,  compared  to  a  heartache  ?  If  I  can 
bear  to  hear  you  say  no  in  that  horrid  cold  voice, 
you  can  bear  to  hear  me  talk  as  long  as  ever  I 
choose.  Mary,  you  shall  hear  me,  and  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  something  that  will  make  you 
think  you  hate  me.  You  know  that  I  love  you 
with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  But  it  seems  foolish 
to  talk  about  that.  Of  course  I  love  you.  Who 
could  help  it  ?  Cousin  Letitia  adores  you,  though 
she  may  not  tell  you  so.  Everybody  adores  you, 
simply  because  you  are  the  most  perfectly  ador- 
able woman  that  ever  lived.  But,  Mary,"  and 
his  voice  sank  to  a  lower  key — "Mary,  there  is 
one  thing  you  don't  know,  and  that  I  am  going 
to  tell  you— -you  love  me." 

"  How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  to  me,  Fred 
Ingraham  ? ' '  cried  Mary,  springing  to  her  feet, 
white  with  anger,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  breath 
coming  fast. 

"  I  suppose  it  does  sound  like  a  brutal  thing  to 
say,"  he  admitted,  "here  in  the  house,  where 
everything  is  conventional." 

He  was  also  standing  now,  leaning  back  in  the 
shadow  against  the  chimney,  watching  Mary's 
face  with  the  uncertain  firelight  on  it.  The  lamp 
was  behind  her.  She  had  not  got  her  breath 
sufficiently  to  speak  again.  The  red  book  had 
dropped  to  the  floor,  and  her  hands  were  clinched. 
As  he  looked  at  her  a  sudden  pity  came  over  him. 


202  Pratt  Portraits. 

His  voice  was  tender,  as  though  he  feared  to  hurt 
her  more. 

"  I  had  meant  to  walk  home  with  you  from  our 
house,  and  tell  you  then,  Mary.  There  is  lovely 
starlight  outside,  and  out  under  the  stars  one 
does  n't  mind  the  truth.  We  have  wonderful 
starlight  on  the  ranch,  Mary.  The  air  is  so  clear 
out  there  that  you  almost  feel  the  stars  throb. 
When  I  have  been  keeping  watch  the  night  after 
a  round-up,  riding  round  and  round  the  great 
black  mass  of  sleeping  cattle  on  the  wide  black 
plains,  it  has  seemed  to  me  as  though  there  were 
nothing  real  and  lasting  in  all  the  universe  but 
just  those  stars.  Now  there  will  be  one  thing  as 
real  and  lasting  as  they,  and  that  is  my  love  for 
you.  And,  Mary,  you  may  deny  it ;  you  may 
fight  it  down  and  try  to  kill  it,  but  I  tell  you 
solemnly,  you  will  never  look  at  the  stars  again 
as  long  as  you  live  without  knowing  that  you 
love  me." 

She  had  clasped  her  hands  now,  and  held  them 
tight  together,  but  she  would  not  lift  her  eyes 
from  the  fire.  It  seemed  like  a  disembodied  voice 
that  she  was  listening  to,  and  there  was  a  strange 
compelling  power  in  it  that  frightened  her.  She 
made  a  movement  as  though  she  would  protest, 
but  he  interrupted  her. 

"  Don't,  Mary.  Don't  say  it  again.  Wait  till 
you  can  say  yes.  Wait,  just  as  you  are,  and 
think.  I  know  you  will  say  yes  if  you  wait  a 
little.  You  are  too  true  not  to  see  the  truth. " 


The  Schoolmarm.  203 

Then  she  lifted  her  face  in  the  firelight.  ' '  Fred 
Ingraham,"  she  cried,  in  a  despairing  tone,  "I 
believe  I  do  hate  you — you  are — so— cruel." 

Fred  looked  at  the  tragic  face,  and  an  exultant 
light  came  into  his  own. 

"  It 's  a  kind  of  hate  I  'm  not  afraid  of,  Mary," 
he  said,  and  he  held  out  his  arms. 

The  shadows  among  the  baronial  pillars  seemed 
to  be  swaying  and  wavering  before  her  eyes,  and 
her  own  step  faltered.  But  she  went  to  him, 
because  she  could  not  help  it.  He  kissed  her, 
rather  cautiously,  and  she  made  no  resistance. 
A  strange,  delicious,  poignant  happiness  over- 
whelmed her. 

That  night  Mary  cried  herself  to  sleep  for  the 
first  time  since  she  was  a  little  child.  But  in  that 
beneficent  storm  of  grief  her  last  tottering  defences 
were  swept  away.  When,  but  a  few  hours  later, 
the  time  of  parting  came,  her  valiant  lover  knew 
that  her  surrender  was  complete. 

Mrs.  Beardsley  generously  forgave  her  young 
cousin  for  robbing  her  of  her  "  treasure,"  though, 
as  her  short  period  of  possession  went  by,  she 
learned  still  better  to  measure  her  impending 
loss.  She  permitted  herself  but  one  form  of  re- 
venge, which,  however,  she  always  clung  to.  As 
often  as  she  had  occasion  to  write  to  him  in  after 
years,  she  never  failed  to  address  him  as  her 
"dear  bandit." 

As  for  Old  L,ady  Pratt,  though  Mary  had  gone 
contrary  to  all  her  prognostications,  she  was  too 


204  Pratt  Portraits. 

much  relieved  to  resent  being  put  in  the  wrong. 
Her  unfailing  comment  when  the  event  was  dis- 
cussed in  the  family  was  :  "  Mary  William  's  got 
more  sense,  arter  all,  than  I  giv'  her  credit 
for." 


IX. 

A  VALENTINE. 

EVERYBODY  liked  Mattie  and  Hattie  Pratt, 
and  it  would  have  been  strange  if  such 
had  not  been  the  case.     Even  the  fact  of 
their  universal  popularity  failed  to  create 
cavillers.      The  boys  and   girls    of   Dunbridge 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  questioning  the 
merits  of  the  sunshine  and  the  west  wind,  as  the 
claims  of  Mattie  and  Hattie  to  their  loyal  good- 
will.    Indeed  the  simile  is  not  inapt.     The  dark- 
eyed  Mattie,  four  years  the  elder,   had  in  her 
disposition  much  of  the  staying,  heart- warming 
quality  of  sunshine,  while  there  was  a  refreshing 
breeziness  about  her  sister  which  was  ever  wel- 
come and  ever  new. 

It  had  been  something  of  a  trial  to  Mrs.  Ben 
Pratt,  who  was  not  without  a  sense  of  euphony, 
that  the  exigencies  of  family  relationship  should 
have  obliged  her  to  name  her  two  daughters 
Martha  and  Harriet.  The  inevitableness  of  the 
descent  to  "Mattie"  and  "Hattie"  could  not 
be  denied,  and  the  hopeless  lack  of  distinction  in 
the  reiteration  of  that  flat  a  was  very  depressing 


206  Pratt  Portraits. 

to  a  woman  who  was  something  of  a  connoisseur 
in  names,  having  herself  been  born  a  Hazeldean. 
But  Ben  would  not  hear  of  calling  the  first 
daughter  for  any  one  but  his  wife,  and  when, 
four  years  later,  the  second  girl  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  Mrs.  Ben  could  do  no  less  than  re- 
ciprocate, by  naming  her  for  her  husband's  eldest 
sister,  Harriet.  More  especially  since  a  boy, 
who:  2  arrival  had  intervened,  bore  his  mother's 
maiden  name  of  Hazeldean.  By  the  exercise  of 
great  vigilance  and  determination  Mrs.  Ben  suc- 
ceeded in  keeping  Hazeldean' s  name  intact,  but 
this  effort  so  exhausted  her  energies  that  she 
yielded  the  "Mattie"  and  "Hattie"  almost 
without  a  struggle. 

Names,  however,  owe  their  chief  significance 
to  the  people  who  bear  them,  and  it  rarely 
occurred  to  any  one  but  Mrs.  Ben  that  the  names 
Mattie  Pratt  and  Hattie  Pratt  could  be  improved 
upon. 

On  second  thoughts  that  statement  demands 
modification.  Before  the  time  of  our  story — when 
Mattie  had  reached  the  mature  age  of  twenty- 
three — more  than  one  young  man  had  thought 
that  his  own  surname  might  be  substituted  with 
advantage  for  hers.  Unfortunately  for  these 
young  men,  Mattie  had  not  been  of  the  same 
mind.  She  had  considered  the  claims  of  each 
candidate  with  a  deliberateness,  which  in  a  less 
sincere  and  kindly  young  person  might  have 
been  censured,  and  then  she  had  skilfully  trans- 


A   Valentine.  207 

formed  the  misguided  aspirant  into  a  more  or  less 
resigned  friend. 

The  nineteen-year  old  Hattie  had,  up  to  this 
time,  boasted  but  one  actual  "  offer."  It  was  on 
the  day  that  Dickie  Lewis  first  went  into  trousers, 
that  he  set  himself  to  sue  for  the  very  sticky  hand 
of  his  young  contemporary  in  a  gingham  apron, 
This  interesting  scene  occurred  during  the  school 
recess,  the  maiden  of  his  choice  being  at  the 
moment  engaged  in  eating  molasses  candy  behind 
the  currant  bushes.  A  large  piece  of  this  delecta- 
ble concoction  was  rapidly  reducing  itself  to  its 
original  consistency  in  her  warm  little  grasp, 
while  he  made  his  declaration  of  undying  devo- 
tion, lyittle  Hattie  gazed  with  the  most  flattering 
interest  at  Dicky  in  his  newly  acquired  dignity. 
Those  trousers  were  very  imposing.  But  yet,  but 
yet,  she  felt  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  she  loved 
Jimmy  Jones,  with  the  court-plaster  on  his  nose, 
better  than  she  loved  Dicky,  and  truth  compelled 
her  to  say  so.  Touched  by  the  hopelessness  of 
Dicky's  case,  she  held  out  to  him  the  whole  big 
piece  of  molasses  candy,  and  to  her  mingled  relief 
and  chagrin,  he  seized  and  devoured  it,  with 
an  appetite  unimpaired  by  his  disappointment. 
Hattie  Pratt' s  faith  in  manly  devotion  had  never 
recovered  from  that  crushing  blow.  As  she  grew 
older  she  regarded  the  comings  and  goings  of  her 
sister's  lovers  with  a  certain  scepticism,  and  when 
any  rash  young  man  ventured  to  bestow  upon 
her  a  sentimental  word  or  look  she  remembered 


208  Pratt  Portraits. 

Dicky  I^ewis  and  laughed  it  off.  Thus  it  will  be 
seen  how  an  early  disenchantment  may  eat  into 
the  fabric  of  one's  faith  in  human  nature. 

Among  the  frequenters  of  the  Ben  Pratt 
house,  a  stranger  had  recently  enrolled  himself,  a 
stranger  whose  assiduity  in  calling  once  a  week 
did  not  escape  Hattie's  mocking  criticism.  He 
was  the  new  head-master  of  the  high-school,  a 
tall,  grave-looking  individual,  who  wore  glasses 
and  limped  slightly.  Indeed,  his  limp  was  so 
very  slight  that  the  irreverent  Hattie  concluded 
that  his  shoes  were  too  tight  for  him. 

Mr.  Emerson  Swain,  for  such  was  his  classic 
name,  had  seemed  so  particularly  fitted  for  his 
post  as  schoolmaster,  and  so  entirely  unfitted  to 
play  any  lighter  role,  that  his  arrival  in  town  had 
occasioned  very  little  comment  or  inquiry.  Noth- 
ing was  known  of  him  beyond  the  fact  that  he 
had  come  highly  recommended  by  the  authorities 
of  a  Western  college,  that  his  learning  was  prob- 
ably profound,  and  his  social  talents  correspond- 
ingly limited.  On  the  occasion  of  his  first  appear- 
ance at  a  social  gathering  in  Dunbridge  he  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Pratt  girls,  and,  to 
every  one's  amusement,  it  became  evident  that  he 
had  straightway  fallen  a  victim  to  Mattie's  charms. 
With  old-fashioned  punctiliousness,  he  had,  a  few 
days  later,  sought  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Ben,  and 
askedpermissiontocallupon  herself  and  her  daugh- 
ters. From  that  time  forward  he  was  a  weekly 
visitor  at  their  house.  He  usually  came  on  Sat- 


A   Valentine.  209 

urday  evening,  as  a  reward,  Hattie  declared,  for 
having  "  tried  all  the  week  to  be  good."  It  was 
his  habit  to  remain  exactly  one  hour,  which  time 
was  passed  in  conversation  with  Mattie  and  the 
elder  members  of  the  family.  Hattie,  who  had 
no  mind  to  allow  herself  to  be  shut  out  in  the 
cold,  and  who  usually  sat  by  with  Dixie,  the 
fox-terrier,  in  her  lap,  used  occasionally  to  throw 
in  a  light-minded  observation,  thus  giving  an 
unexpected  turn  to  the  conversation,  and  causing 
Mr.  Emerson  Swain  to  gaze  benignantly  at  her 
through  his  spectacles.  * '  It  is  such  fun  to  make 
him  blink  at  me, ' '  the  bad  child  would  say,  when 
remonstrated  with  by  her  family. 

Mr.  Swain's  conversation  was  quite  worth  lis- 
tening to  in  a  very  different  spirit  from  that  which 
Hattie  deigned  to  honor  it  with.  Mrs.  Ben 
maintained  that  he  had  "the  best  informed 
mind ' '  she  had  ever  met  with,  and  she  confided 
to  her  mother-in-law,  Old  Lady  Pratt,  that  she 
almost  hoped  that  Mattie  might  fancy  him. 

"  It 's  high  time  she  fancied  somebody  !  "  the 
old  lady  had  declared,  true  as  always  to  her  faith 
in  early  marriages.  Mattie,  for  her  part,  listened 
most  politely  and  attentively  to  all  the  school- 
master had  to  say,  responding  in  a  ladylike  man- 
ner, which  seemed  to  give  him  entire  satisfaction, 
if  one  might  judge  by  the  regularity  of  his  visits. 
She  did  not  acknowledge,  even  to  her  family,  that 
she  found  such  elevated  conversation  a  trifle 
tedious. 


2IO  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Why  do  you  stay  in  the  room  when  Mr. 
Swain  calls?"  she  would  ask  Hattie.  "You 
might  just  as  well  be  amusing  yourself  in  the 
library." 

"Oh,  but  he  amuses  me,"  Hattie  would  cry. 
"  He  's  just  nuts  !  He  arranges  his  sentences  so 
beautifully,  and  his  spectacles  look  so  owlish. 
Do  you  know,  Mattie,  he  seems  a  great  deal  too 
old  and  solemn  to  fall  in  love." 

"Very  likely  he  is,"  assented  Mattie,  for  the 
two  girls  had  agreed  between  themselves  that  he 
must  be  "well  over  thirty."  "There  is  n't 
any  question  of  his  falling  in  love,  as  far  as  I 
know." 

Now  Hattie  Pratt,  though  not  of  a  literary 
turn  of  mind,  had  a  certain  knack  with  her  pen, 
which  had  stood  her  in  good  stead  in  more  than 
one  of  the  small  crises  of  her  lively  existence.  One 
day  in  February  she  might  have  been  seen  curled 
up  in  the  cushioned  window-seat  of  the  parlor,  in 
close  consultation  with  the  lyric  muse.  It  was  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  she  had  some  misgivings 
as  to  the  godliness  of  her  undertaking.  But, 
unfortunately  for  her  Sabbath-day  morals,  an 
incident  had  occurred  on  the  previous  evening 
which  had  filled  her  with  thoughts  of  vengeance, 
whose  execution  would  no  longer  be  deferred. 

Mr.  Swain  had  been  speaking  of  one  of  the 
assistant  teachers  at  the  high-school,  the  teacher 
who  had  the  misfortune  to  stutter  as  often  as  he 
became  at  all  agitated,  and  Hattie,  who  was  a  nat- 


A  Valentine.  211 

ural  mimic,  could  not  let  pass  such  an  opportunity 
for  the  display  of  her  powers.  At  mention  of  the 
young  man's  name,  she  cried,  in  excellent  imita- 
tion of  him:  "  B-b-boys !  Such  b-b-behavior 
is  inexc-c-cusable." 

Their  visitor  had  looked  at  her  reproachfully 
through  his  glasses,  and  had  said,  with  most 
uncalled-for  emphasis  :  * '  Yes,  Miss  Hattie,  it  is 
a  cruel  infirmity." 

For  once,  Hattie' s  ready  wit  had  deserted  her. 
To  her  consternation  and  disgust,  she  felt  the 
blood  rush  to  her  face,  and  she  dropped  her  eyes 
before  those  penetrating  spectacles,  in  unwilling 
acknowledgment  of  defeat.  She  shuddered  even 
now  as  she  thought  of  her  discomfiture,  and  then 
she  wet  the  point  of  her  pencil  on  the  tip  of  her 
small,  unruly  tongue,  and  applied  herself  with 
renewed  concentration  to  the  work  of  vengeance. 
The  day  had  been  beautiful.  The  level  rays 
of  the  sun,  which  was  sinking  in  the  west,  fell 
aslant  of  Hattie' s  curly  brown  head,  revealing  a 
picturesque  disorder,  which  frequent  wild  clutches 
for  inspiration  had  wrought.  With  her  feet  drawn 
up  under  her,  and  her  head  bent  over  her  work, 
all  semblance  of  her  graceful  little  person  was 
lost.  Suddenly  her  brow  cleared,  her  pencil 
raced  over  the  paper,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  success- 
ful accomplishment,  she  sat  up  straight,  extend- 
ing her  slippered  feet  to  the  end  of  the  cushion, 
leaned  her  head  against  the  casement,  and  fell  to 
reading  her  effusion : 


212  Pratt  Portraits. 

"TO  MY  CHOSEN  SWAIN. 

"  Kneel  not  at  another's  shrine, 
Rather  come  and  kneel  at  mine. 
Black  eyes  cold  and  cruel  be, 
Black  eyes  are  not  meant  for  thee. 
What  my  name,  and  what  the  hue 
Of  my  eyes,  I  'd  tell  thee  true, 
But,  too  timid  to  confess, 
I  must  leave  thy  wit  to  guess, — 
Guess  the  secret  that  is  thine, 
If  thou  wilt  be  my  Valentine." 

"  There  !  If  that  does  n't  make  him  blink  his 
conceited  old  eyes,"  she  thought,  with  vengeful 
glee. 

The  sun  was  already  cut  in  two  by  the  line  of 
a  black  hill  on  the  horizon.  Hattie  turned  and 
looked  straight  into  the  golden  disk.  Her  strong 
young  eyes,  which  had  fallen  before  a  certain 
pair  of  spectacles,  did  not  waver  in  the  face  of 
the  god  of  day.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  from 
the  mental  strain  of  composition,  and  her  eyes 
were  bright.  As  the  sun  dropped  behind  the 
hill  a  golden  light  crept  up  into  the  sky,  higher 
and  higher,  and  then  the  most  beautiful  waves  of 
color  spread  themselves  along  the  line  of  low 
hills.  The  young  face  softened,  the  lips  that  had 
been  so  firmly  compressed  relaxed  into  their 
natural  sweet  expression,  and  a  dreamy,  far- 
away look  came  into  the  dark-blue  eyes.  The 
splendors  of  the  sunset  deepened  and  grew,  and 
then  the  color  faded,  and  the  last  uncertain  light 


A   Valentine.  213 

fell  upon  the  face  of  a  sleeping  child,  a  face 
where  long  dark  lashes  fringed  the  closed  lids, 
and  a  mouth  as  innocent  as  a  baby's  was  parted 
in  a  half  smile. 

When  Hattie  awoke,  however,  at  the  lighting 
of  the  gas,  the  spirit  of  mischief  awoke  with  her. 
For  though  her  face  had  softened  when  the  sun- 
set color  swept  the  sky,  her  hard  little  heart  had 
not  changed  one  bit. 

She  ran  to  her  own  room  where  she  would  be 
safe  from  disturbance,  and  there  she  copied  her 
verses  in  an  elaborately  disguised  hand.  For  to- 
morrow would  be  St.  Valentine's  day,  and  the 
shot  must  be  fired  early  in  the  morning. 

Accordingly,  when  her  father  was  starting,  the 
next  day,  to  drive  into  the  city,  she  gave  him  the 
letter  "  to  post  in  town. ' '  Ben,  to  whom  all  girls' 
scrawls  looked  exactly  alike,  did  not  observe 
anything  peculiar  about  the  handwriting,  and 
readily  undertook  to  do  his  daughter's  bidding. 
Ben  was  a  fairly  obedient  father  in  all  small  mat- 
ters, and  as  such  was  a  great  favorite  with  his 
children.  As  the  day  went  by  Hattie  was  full 
of  self-glorification. 

'  *  He  may  not  get  it  till  to-morrow, ' '  she  re- 
flected, "but  he  will  know  it  was  sent  to-day, 
and  won't  he  be  puzzled  ?  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  I 
did  it !  I  am  so  glad  I  did  it  !  " 

Poor  Hattie  !     Her  joy  was  to  be  short-lived  ! 

"  Father,  did  you  post  my  letter  ?  "  she  asked, 
as  she  helped  him  off  with  his  great-coat  that 


214  Pratt  Portraits. 

evening.  Mr.  Ben  Pratt' s  face  was  red  and  his 
whiskers  prickly  with  the  frost  as  Hattie  had  dis- 
covered when  she  kissed  him  a  moment  before. 
The  dutiful  father  beamed  with  inward  satisfac- 
tion, as  he  rubbed  his  hands  together  to  get  them 
warm. 

"  Better  than  that!  Better  than  that!"  he 
answered.  "  I  met  Mr.  Swain  just  as  I  turned 
into  Main  Street,  and  for  once  I  had  my  wits 
about  me." 

"  You  did  n't  give  him  the  letter  !  "  cried  Hat- 
tie,  in  breathless  suspense. 

"That  's  just  what  I  did  do,"  her  father 
answered,  complacently.  * '  I  told  him  it  was 
something  my  daughter  Hattie  had  asked  me 
to  post,  and  I  thought  perhaps  he  could  find  the 
owner, ' '  and  Ben  passed  on  into  the  warm  library 
without  a  glance  at  the  miserable  little  victim  of 
his  ill-judged  zeal. 

Hattie  meanwhile  had  fled  up-stairs,  with  pert 
little  Dixie  close  at  her  heels.  As  she  shut  the 
chamber  door  behind  her,  Dixie,  at  the  risk  of  his 
life,  dashed  in,  giving  a  squeal  of  anguish  as  the 
door  nipped  his  tail. 

1  *  O  Dixie,  you  poor  little  angel, ' '  she  cried, 
seizing  the  small  imp  in  her  arms,  ' '  did  I  squeeze 
his  tail  in  the  door  ?  Oh  !  how  could  I  ?  "  and 
she  tenderly  laid  him  on  the  bed,  and  knelt  be- 
side him,  incoherent  and  distracted.  * '  O  Dixie  ! 
Dixie  !  That  horrid  man  !  And  your  poor  little 
tail !  And  he  knows  who  wrote  it !  And  he  will 


A  Valentine.  215 

think  ! — oh  !  what  won't  he  think  !  And  how  it 
must  have  hurt,  you  poor  little  martyr.  And  oh, 
dear,  how  I  wish  I  was  dead  !  O  Dixie  !  Dixie  ! 
did  it  hurt  very  bad  ?  " 

All  this  time  the  "poor  little  martyr"  was 
beating  the  coverlid  with  his  injured  tail,  and  in- 
dustriously licking  his  mistress'  nose  and  chin 
and  eyebrows,  saying,  as  plainly  as  he  knew 
how,  that  he  had  forgotten  all  about  his  tail,  and 
the  best  thing  she  could  do  would  be  to  forget  all 
about  that  horrid  man  too.  And  then  the  sup- 
per bell  rang,  and  Hattie  had  to  wash  away  the 
traces  of  her  tears  and  go  down  and  face  her 
family,  Dixie  following  close  behind.  At  supper 
Hattie  seemed  to  be  in  hilarious  spirits,  which, 
her  family  attributed  to  the  half-dozen  valentines 
she  had  received  in  the  course  of  the  day.  She 
chattered  like  a  magpie,  and  gave  Hazeldean  tit 
for  tat  in  a  manner  that  delighted  her  father,  and 
caused  her  mother  to  wonder  whether  she  would 
never  grow  up.  But  all  the  while  a  certain  fool- 
ish bit  of  doggerel  was  ringing  in  her  ears,  send- 
ing the  blood  in  sudden  tingling  waves  up  among 
the  curls  in  her  forehead. 

"  Guess  the  secret  that  is  thine, 
If  thou  wilt  be  my  Valentine." 

Ugh-h— 

"  Black  eyes  are  not  meant  for  thee." 

Oh  !  how  hideous  it  all  was  !  How  perfectly 
hideous ! 


216  Pratt  Portraits. 

The  next  day  went  by,  and  the  world  had  not 
come  to  an  end.  Wednesday  came,  and  Thurs- 
day, and  Hattie  began  to  wish  that  something 
would  happen,  if  only  to  end  this  wretched  sus- 
pense. And  then  on  Friday  something  did 
happen. 

It  had  been  raining  hard  all  day.  The  streets 
were  rivers  and  the  side-walks  ponds.  Hattie 
had  been  shut  up  in  the  house  for  so  many  hours 
that  she  suddenly  discovered  that  she  could  not 
bear  it  another  minute.  She  declared  her  inten- 
tion of  going  out  for  a  walk,  and,  wrapped  in  a 
long  waterproof  cloak,  with  the  hood  over  her 
head,  she  was  soon  splashing  along  the  sidewalk 
in  her  rubber  boots,  the  excitable  Dixie  racing 
on  ahead  and  barking  wildly.  She  did  not  carry 
an  umbrella.  Waterproof  cloaks  had  only  lately 
come  into  fashion,  and  the  owner  of  one  would 
have  scorned  an  umbrella. 

The  rain  splashed  in  her  face  and  collected  in 
the  '  *  puckers  ' '  of  her  hood.  Her  hair  lay  in 
spirals,  beaten  flat  against  her  wet  forehead. 
She  trudged  along,  enjoying  this  conflict  with 
the  elements  as  much  as  she  could  enjoy  any- 
thing just  then.  She  looked  at  the  gambols  of 
Dixie  with  the  melancholy  indulgence  with  which 
an  aged  person  regards  the  sports  of  children. 
Still  that  miserable  jingle  pursued  her,  echoing 
through  her  brain  with  senseless  persistency. 

"  Kneel  not  at  another's  shrine, 
Rather  come  and  kneel  at  mine." 


A  Valentine.  217 

Would  she  ever  touch  pen  to  paper  again? 
No  !  Never  !  Never  !  Never  ! 

She  was  out  on  the  long  bridge  now  that  led  to 
the  city.  She  did  not  often  get  so  far  as  that  in 
her  walks,  even  on  a  fair  day.  Here  the  wind 
had  room  to  rage,  unimpeded  by  trees  or  build- 
ings. She  bent  her  head  and  fought  her  way  in 
the  teeth  of  the  storm,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  where,  on  either  side  of  the 
bridge,  the  great  sheets  of  ice  were  being  tossed 
upon  the  dark  waters. 

Suddenly  Dixie  gave  a  joyful  bark  of  recogni- 
tion, and  a  pair  of  long  legs,  clad  in  much-be- 
spattered trousers,  appeared  a  few  feet  away,  in 
the  line  of  her  down  bent  vision.  She  steered  off 
to  the  right,  but  the  legs  stood  still,  and  an 
alarmingly  familiar  voice  exclaimed  : 

"  Why  !  Miss  Hattie  !  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk,  Mr.  Swain,"  she  said, 
distinctly,  trying  to  pass  him  by. 

' '  For  a  walk  ?  My  child,  are  you  crazy  ?  You 
will  get  blown  off  the  bridge  ! ' ' 

He  had  turned  and  was  walking  by  her  side. 
She  said  nothing,  but  pushed  on  faster  and 
faster. 

"  I  see  you  are  trying  to  get  away  from  me," 
he  remarked,  as  he  easily  kept  alongside  of  her, 
in  spite  of  his  slightly  limping  gait. 

"  I  came  out  to  have  a  walk  by  myself,"  she 
shouted  back,  for  the  wind  was  roaring. 

"  I   shall   not    let    you   walk   alone   on   this 


2 1 8  Pratt  Portraits. 

bridge, ' '  he  declared.  His  tone  of  calm  authority 
exasperated  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  right  you  have  to  force 
your  company  upon  me,"  cried  Hattie,  lifting 
her  face  defiantly,  unmindful  of  the  storm  that 
beat  upon  it. 

He  looked  down  upon  her,  as  he  walked  by  her 
side,  and  quietly  took  in  the  picture.  The  slen- 
der figure  battling  with  the  storm,  the  crimson 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  the  rain-drenched 
hair,  the  tiny  waterfalls  on  the  end  of  her  nose 
and  chin.  The  wind  suddenly  subsided,  and  it 
became  so  quiet  that  he  could  hear  the  splash  of 
the  water,  as  she  resolutely  tramped  along. 

"  I  have  the  best  right  in  the  world  to  take 
care  of  you, ' '  he  said,  in  a  low,  penetrating  voice, 
1 '  because  I  love  you. ' ' 

"You  don't,  you  know  you  don't!"  cried 
Hattie,  with  such  vociferous  denial  that  Dixie 
felt  called  upon  to  interfere,  and  sprang  wildly 
about  her  and  upon  her. 

The  wind  had  risen  again,  and  her  tormentor 
shouted  :  "  Won't  3^ou  please  turn  back  now  ?  " 

Mechanically  she  turned,  and  having  the  wind 
at  their  backs,  they  went  on  faster  than  before. 
But  the  bridge  seemed  to  Hattie  perfectly  inter- 
minable. On  and  on  she  tramped,  with  the  rain 
beating  upon  her  shoulders  like  a  hundred 
hands.  Would  she  never  get  away  from  this 
"dreadful  man,"  keeping  pace  with  her  so  per- 
sistently, and  knowing  that  she  knew  that  he  had 


A  Valentine.  219 

said  those  horrible,  those  insulting  words.  For 
what  was  it  but  an  insult  to  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her,  when  she  knew  it  was  just  because  he 
had  been  so  stupidly  conceited  as  to  think  she 
was  in  earnest  when  she  wrote  that  wretched 
valentine. 

At  last  they  left  the  bridge  and  passed  on  into 
the  town,  where  they  were  somewhat  sheltered 
from  the  storm.  They  were  still  two  miles  from 
home.  Not  a  creature  was  moving  in  the  streets 
besides  the  rain-drenched  trio,  man  and  girl  and 
dog.  They  might  as  well  have  been  on  a  desert 
island,  for  any  chances  there  were  of  interruption. 
And  still  he  walked  like  a  shadow  at  her  side. 

"You  contradicted  me  just  now,"  he  said  at 
last,  firmly  and  deliberately,  * '  and  so  I  must 
tell  you  again  that  I  love  you.  I  have  loved  you 
ever  since  I  knew  you,  but  I  did  not  think  I 
should  tell  you  so.  It  was  not  very  likely  that 
you  would  ever  care  for  a  half-blind  cripple  like 
me.  But  at  least  I  could  see  you  often,  and  hear 
your  voice,  and  know  a  little  of  what  was  pass- 
ing in  your  mind,  and  that  was  something.  I 
even  fancied  that  we  might  get  to  be  friends 
some  day.  But  when  you  sent  me  that  valen- 
tine, although,  of  course,  you  never  meant  me  to 
know  who  wrote  it,  I  knew  it  was  either  one  of 
two  things — either  you  liked  me  a  little,  or  you 
despised  me.  And  though  I  am  afraid  I  know 
your  answer  beforehand,  I  must  have  it.  Hattie, 
am  I  right  ?  Was  it  one  of  those  two  things  ?  " 


2  20  Pratt  Portraits. 

"You  don't  love  me!"  she  cried  again,  with 
increasing  vehemence.  "You  don't  love  me! 
You  love  somebody  else  !  You  have  n't  any  right 
to  talk  to  me  like  that.  You  thought  I  meant 
that  odious  valentine.  I  did  n't  mean  it.  No- 
body meant  it.  It  was  nothing  at  all." 

"Hattie,"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  access  of 
anger,  which  was  not  altogether  unbecoming; 
"  Hattie,  you  shall  not  talk  to  me  like  that.  You 
shall  listen  to  me.  You  shall  believe  what  I  say  ! 
I  do  love  you — I  love  you  with  all  my  heart.  I 
loved  you  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you — I  have 
thought  of  you  from  morning  till  night  every  day 
of  my  life  since  that  day.  I  love  you  always — I 
love  you  when  I  am  with  you,  and  I  love  you 
when  you  are  absent.  I  love  you  when  you  are 
sweet  and  kind,  and  I  love  you  when  you  are — not 
sweet  and  kind.  I  love  all  your  looks,  and  all 
your  words — I  would  dare  swear  that  I  love  all 
the  thoughts  you  think  ! ' ' 

On  and  on  they  tramped,  through  the  rain  and 
the  mud,  and  on  and  on  he  talked.  He,  who 
usually  "  arranged  his  sentences  so  beautifully," 
could  not  seem  to  talk  fast  enough,  to  say  what 
he  had  to  say.  She  did  not  hear  half  his  words. 
They  were  drowned  and  confused  by  the  wind 
and  the  rain,  by  her  own  bewildering  emotions. 
Only  one  terrible,  overwhelming  fact  was  borne 
in  upon  her  guilty  little  soul.  He  did  love  her, 
and  she  could  not  help  herself. 

At  last  they  got  to  her  own  gate,  and,  with  his 


A  Valentine.  221 

hand  upon  it,  he  said  :  "  Hattie  !  Which  is  it  ? 
Tell  me  once  for  all.  Do  you  love  me,  or  do 
you  despise  me  ?  ' ' 

Then  Hattie  lifted  up  her  head  and  looked  him 
full  in  the  face,  and  said  :  "  Mr.  Swain,  /  can't 
bear  you  ! ' ' 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her  without  another 
Word,  and,  as  she  and  Dixie  passed  through,  he 
lifted  his  dripping  hat  and  said  good-bye. 

Her  mother  met  her  at  the  door,  anxious  over 
her  long  absence,  and  Hattie  threw  herself,  wet 
waterproof  and  all,  upon  her  mother's  neck,  and 
cried  :  ' '  O  Mother  !  Mother  !  He  says  he  loves 
me  !  That  dreadful  man  !  " 

"  My  child,  what  do  you  mean?"  cried  Mrs. 
Ben,  thinking  that  Hattie  had  taken  leave  of  her 
senses.  "  Come  up  to  your  own  room  and  get 
off  these  soaking  things. ' ' 

They  went  up-stairs,  followed  by  the  faithful 
Dixie. 

"  He  says  he  loves  me,  Mother,"  she  lamented 
again,  as  her  mother  pulled  off  her  waterproof, 
and  commanded  her  to  change  her  shoes  and 
stockings. 

'  *  And  your  petticoats  are  wet  through  ! ' '  cried 
Mrs.  Ben.  Her  motherly  heart  was  in  much 
greater  terror  of  colds  than  of  lovers,  which  latter 
dispensation  was  in  the  natural  order  of  things, 
and  could  not  be  averted. 

It  was  not  until  the  child  was  clothed  again 
that  her  mother  was  ready  to  believe  that  she 


222  Pratt  Portraits. 

was  also  in  her  right  mind,  and  then  she  sat 
down  beside  her,  prepared  for  confidences. 

But,  the  first  rush  of  feeling  being  over,  Hattie 
did  not  find  it  so  easy  to  tell  her  story.  She 
looked  at  Dixie  as  though  she  thought  he  might 
help  her  out  of  the  difficulty.  But  Dixie,  who 
evidently  felt  that  one  exciting  scene  was  all  that 
his  nerves  could  bear,  had  curled  himself  up  in  a 
corner  and  sought  refuge  in  slumber. 

'  *  Well,  Hattie,  now  what  is  it  ? ' ' 

1 '  Nothing,  Mother,  only  he  told  me  he  loved 
me  for  more  than  two  miles. ' ' 

"Hattie  Pratt!"  cried  Mrs.  Ben,  reduced  to 
extremity.  "  If  you  don't  tell  me  who  it  is  that 
has  been  talking  nonsense  to  you  in  all  this  mud 
and  slosh — P II  shake  you  !  " 

This,  though  unquestionably  a  little  mortifying 
to  a  young  lady  who  had  just  received  a  declara- 
tion, was  well  calculated  to  recall  her  to  her 
senses.  And  Hattie,  with  the  frankness  which 
was  one  of  her  brightest  virtues,  told  her  mother 
the  whole  story  from  beginning  to  end,  palliating 
nothing,  excusing  nothing. 

Mrs.  Ben  heroically  suppressed  her  inclination 
to  smile  at  this  rather  comical  tale  of  woe,  and, 
faithful  to  her  sense  of  duty,  said,  severely : 
"  And  now  you  have  got  your  deserts." 

"O  Mother!  I  did  n't  deserve  anything  so 
bad  as  that !  "  Hattie  protested.  "  How  can  you 
say  I  deserved  anything  so  bad  as  that  ?  ' ' 

"Well,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Ben,  "I  think  myself 


A  Valentine.  223 

you  have  been  sufficiently  punished."  She 
looked  for  a  moment  at  the  woe-begone  face 
of  the  culprit,  and  then  she  said,  consolingly : 
"  Hattie,  I  don't  believe  he  was  as  serious  as  he 
thought  for,  if  that  's  any  comfort  to  you.  He 
has  probably  tried  to  make  himself  think  he  is  in 
love  with  you,  just  to  spare  your  feelings.  Any 
gentleman  would  feel  bound  to  do  what  he  could 
in  such  a  situation, — and  Mr.  Swain  is  a  gentle- 
man, if  he  is  a  little  stiff  in  his  manners. " 

"I  think,  Mother,"  Hattie  replied,  with  con- 
scious dignity,  ' '  that  if  you  had  heard  him  talk, 
you  would  not  have  any  doubt  about  his  being  in 
earnest." 

Nor  did  Hattie  ever  admit  any  question  on  that 
point.  Emerson  Swain's  words,  and  still  more 
his  manner,  had  been  too  convincing.  She  could 
not  mistake  the  accent  of  sincerity  with  which  he 
had  said:  "I  love  you."  Gradually  the  first 
horror  with  which  those  words  had  filled  her 
wore  away,  and  she  began  to  think  of  them  with 
something  very  like  toleration.  It  was  as  though 
they  were  repeated  over  and  over  every  day,  so 
haunting  was  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  they  had 
been  spoken.  After  all,  he  was  a  man,  this  grave, 
self-contained  schoolmaster.  It  was  a  man's  love 
that  had  been  offered  her,  and  not  a  boyish  fancy. 
There  was  something  wonderfully  stirring  in  his 
honest  passion,  which  had  asserted  itself  so  stoutly, 
in  spite  of  his  self-distrust  and  genuine  humble- 
mindedness.  She  could  not  forget  his  words — she 


224  Pratt  Portraits. 

could  not  forget  him,  though  she  saw  no  more  of 
him  in  the  weeks  that  followed.  A  strange  hu- 
mility had  come  over  her.  She  began  to  feel  as 
though  an  honor  had  befallen  her,  of  which  she 
had  shown  herself  unworthy.  She  had  not  been 
enough  of  a  woman  to  accept  it,  or  even  to  appre- 
ciate it ;  but  if  she  had  been  a  great  deal  older 
and  a  great  deal  wiser,  she  might  have  taken  it 
differently.  She  was  sorry  he  did  not  come  to 
the  house  any  more.  His  conversation  had  really 
been  very  interesting.  She  would  not  have  un- 
derstood anything  about  the  Mexican  coloniza- 
tion scheme,  and  the  tragic  fate  of  Maximilian 
and  Carlotta,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Mr.  Swain. 
He  had  promised,  too,  to  take  them  all  over  to  see 
the  glass-works  some  day.  She  would  have  been 
glad  to  see  the  glass-works.  Nobody  else  would 
ever  think  of  taking  them  there.  None  of  the 
young  men  they  knew  seemed  to  be  interested  in 
anything  but  themselves  and  their  own  concerns. 
Perhaps  Hattie  might  not  have  drawn  so  many 
comparisons  in  favor  of  her  lame  and  spectacled 
suitor  if  his  society  had  been  thrust  upon  her. 
But  ever  since  that  eventful  walk  he  had  studi- 
ously avoided  her.  The  blustering  winter  months 
had  stormed  themselves  out,  April,  with  all  its 
sweet  caprices,  had  gone  the  way  of  other  tears 
and  smiles,  and  now  May  had  come,  bringing 
young  leaves  and  dandelions,  and  making  green 
the  lawns  and  hedges.  And  in  all  that  time  Mr. 
Emerson  Swain  had  only  once  come  to  the  house. 


A  Valentine.  225 

That  was  on  an  evening  when  he  knew  perfectly 
well  that  Mattie  and  Hattie  had  gone  to  a  dance, 
and  he  made  no  pretence  of  having  come  to  call 
on  any  one  but  their  mother.  Mrs.  Ben  had  en- 
joyed his  visit  very  much.  She  had  found  him 
so  talkative  and  easy — not  nearly  so  stiff  in  his 
manners  as  he  used  to  be — that  she  felt  justified 
in  assuring  Hattie  that  if  he  had  ever  suffered 
from  any  disappointment  he  must  have  got  over 
it  entirely. 

But  Hattie  knew  better.  That  faith  in  the  im- 
mortality of  love,  which  most  young  girls  cherish, 
had  asserted  itself  in  her  heart.  Kmerson  Swain, 
who  had  given  up  the  game  with  a  half-pitiful, 
wholly-contemptuous  smile  at  his  own  expense, 
would  have  been  surprised  and  touched  if  he  had 
suspected  anything  of  the  almost  passionate  loy- 
alty with  which  his  scornful  little  divinity  believed 
in  him. 

Meanwhile  the  last  of  May  had  come,  and  Dec- 
oration Day  was  close  at  hand.  Decoration  Day, 
which  meant  so  much  when  first  it  was  celebrated, 
soon  after  the  close  of  the  war.  It  seemed  that 
year  as  though  the  very  flowers  knew  why  they 
bloomed,  and  pressed  forward  to  meet  the  day. 
In  the  fields  about  Dunbridge  the  daisies  and  but- 
tercups ran  riot,  and  all  the  brooksides  were  blue 
with  long-stemmed  violets.  Brilliant  columbines 
grew  about  the  rocks,  and  fragile  wood  anemones 
and  hardy  cornel  blossoms  hid  side  by  side  in  the 
woods.  All  the  young  people  of  the  town  had 

S5 


226  Pratt  Portraits. 

been  out  gathering  them,  and  now,  in  the  late 
afternoon,  a  score  of  them  were  met  together  in 
the  high-school  building,  to  weave  their  flowers 
into  wreaths,  and  sword-hilts,  and  crosses.  The 
next  day  the  boys  and  girls  would  walk  in  pro- 
cession, led  by  the  little  company  of  veterans,  to 
lay  the  fading  offerings  upon  the  soldiers'  graves. 
The  youngest  child  who  was  to  carry  a  posy 
could  remember  the  war.  There  was  no  need  to 
tell  him  what  all  these  flowery  tributes  meant. 

The  group  of  young  people  in  the  schoolhouse 
worked  together,  subdued  and  solemnized  by  the 
memories  the  day  recalled,  and  when  the  work 
was  done  they  quietly  dispersed,  carrying  their 
flowers  with  them  to  be  kept  fresh  till  morning. 
On  the  way  home  Hattie  Pratt  remembered  that 
she  had  left  her  scissors  behind  her.  She  slipped 
away  from  the  others,  and,  burdened  with  flowers 
as  she  was,  she  ran  back  alone  to  the  school- 
house.  About  her  neck  was  a  garland  of  daisies, 
a  wreath  of  buttercups  hung  from  her  wrist,  while 
other  wreaths  and  garlands  filled  her  arms. 

Her  light  step  made  little  sound  as  she  ran  up 
the  stairs  and  into  the  great  hall,  the  door  of  which 
was  open.  There  among  the  litter  of  bright  blos- 
soms and  green  leaves  stood  Emerson  Swain, — 
with  his  hands  behind  him  looking  down.  In 
her  haste  Hattie  had  come  close  upon  him  before 
she  saw  him.  She  gave  a  little  cry  of  consterna- 
tion and  started  to  leave  the  room.  He  too  looked 
disconcerted,  but  when  she  turned  to  go  he  pulled 


^    aJB»iii'SrVii 


HATTIE 


A  Valentine.  227 

himself  together  and  said  very  composedly, 
"  Don't  let  me  drive  you  away,  Miss  Hattie. 
You  have  come  back  for  something. " 

"Only  my  scissors,"  she  stammered,  "but  it 
is  n't  of  the  least  consequence." 

"  lyet  me  help  you  find  them." 

And  he  began  moving  the  fallen  leaves  and 
petals  about  with  his  cane.  The  scissors  soon 
turned  up.  As  he  handed  them  to  her  he  said  : 

'  *  You  will  perhaps  be  glad  to  hear — that  is,  if 
you  care  about  it  one  way  or  the  other — that  I  am 
going  away  for  good  in  July.  I  have  not  told  any 
one  yet,  for  my  new  appointment  was  only  settled 
this  morning. ' ' 

Hattie  stood  still  in  helpless  embarrassment. 
She  felt  that  she  must  say  something.  She  could 
not  go  away  leaving  such  an  announcement  as 
that  in  mid-air.  It  would  be  too  cowardly.  At 
last  she  gave  a  constrained  little  laugh,  and  asked, 
inconsequently : 

14  What  do  you  think  of  all  this  clutter  in  your 
schoolroom,  Mr.  Swain?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment — 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  what  I  was  thinking 
when  you  came  in  ?  I  was  wondering  whether 
the  fellows  who  got  killed  did  not  have  the  best 
of  it  after  all.  Whether  it  was  not  better,  for  in- 
stance, than  hobbling  through  life  ?  ' ' 

' '  But — but — you  were  not  in  the  war  ? ' '  cried 
Hattie,  suddenly  forgetting  her  embarrassment 
and  self-consciousness. 


228  Pratt  Portraits. 

"And  why  not?" 

"  And  did  you  get " 

"Yes— I  got  shot.' ' 

Her  eyes  were  big  with  wonder. 

"  Oh  !  please  tell  me  about  it.  When  did  it 
happen  ?  How  did  it  happen  ?  ' ' 

"It  happened  early  in  the  war — I  got  well 
enough  to  go  back  again. ' ' 

1 1  You  went  back  again  after  you  had  got 
shot?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  I  was  not  such  a  cripple 
that  I  could  not  serve.  A  lame  leg,"  he  added 
bitterly,  ' '  disables  a  man  more  in  after  life  than  it 
does  in  action.  Men  respect  their  captain  none 
the  less  for  being  a  little  damaged." 

"  Oh  !     What  did  they  do  to  thank  you  ?  " 

He  looked  down  upon  the  glowing  young  face 
rising  up  out  of  the  garland  of  daisies,  and  he 
wished  she  would  go  home  and  not  stay  there  look- 
ing like  that.  But  he  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice  : 

"  They  treated  me  very  well— they  made  me  a 
colonel  before  we  got  through." 

' '  A  colonel  !  How  brave  you  must  have  been  ! '  * 

And  then,  as  she  stood  before  him  and  met  his 
eyes,  into  which  a  look  had  come  which  she  did 
not  quite  understand,  her  self-consciousness  came 
rushing  back  upon  her,  and  she  turned  abruptly 
and  awkwardly  enough  and  left  him. 

She  went  down  stairs  and  out  into  the  long  yel- 
low sunlight,  thinking  new  and  solemn  thoughts. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Hattie  had  ever  been 


A  Valentine.  229 

brought  face  to  face  with  a  personal  heroism  that 
rose  above  the  commonplace  of  every  day.  It 
appealed  to  all  her  enthusiasm — all  her  idealism. 
It  touched  her  as  nothing  else  could  have  done,  it 
made  a  woman  of  her.  And  yet  she  was  still  so 
much  a  child  that  her  mood  changed  from  moment 
to  moment,  her  thoughts  flew  from  great  things 
to  small,  and  all  the  while  she  never  dreamed 
whither  she  was  tending. 

He  had  been  in  the  war.  He  had  stood  his 
ground  when  the  bullets  whistled  about  him, 
when  men  fell  dead  on  every  side.  He  had  been 
wounded,  crippled,  and  then  he  had  gone  back 
and  faced  the  bullets  again.  And  Hazeldean  had 
dared  to  call  him  "  a  muff."  And  she  !  And  she  ! 
Oh  !  What  had  she  been  thinking  of  to  treat  him 
so  !  And  she  might  never  see  him  again.  If  he 
had  avoided  her  for  three  months  it  was  not  likely 
that  he  would  do  any  differently  in  the  little  time 
remaining.  But  she  must  ask  his  forgiveness. 
She  could  not  let  him  go  away  forever  with  those 
contemptuous  words  to  remember.  He  had 
offered  her  the  devotion  of  a  brave  man,  and  like 
a  petulant  child  she  had  flung  back  the  proffered 
gift  with  scorn  and  contumely. 

Then,  as  a  sudden  anti-climax,  came  the  memory 
of  certain  foolish  words  she  had  once  spoken. 
Oh  !  dreadful  thought !  She  had  said  his  shoes 
were  too  tight  for  him  !  That  smote  her  con- 
science more  cruelly  than  all  the  rest,  and  without 
knowing  when  she  had  turned,  she  found  herself 


230  Pratt  Portraits. 

hurrying  back  to  the  schoolhouse,  with  a  wild 
terror  lest  he  should  be  gone,  and  she  should  have 
lost  her  last  chance  to  ask  his  forgiveness. 

She  ran  up  the  stairs  and  burst  into  the  room. 
There  he  stood,  where  she  had  left  him,  looking 
at  the  flowers  that  her  feet  had  trodden  upon. 

"Mr.  Swain!"  she  cried,  still  panting  from 
her  rapid  walk,  "  Mr.  Swain,  I  have  come  back 
because  I  was  afraid  I  should  never  see  you 
again,  and  I  wanted  to  ask  your  pardon. ' ' 

He  looked  down  upon  her,  very  gravely  and 
indulgently. 

*  *  Ask  my  pardon  for  not  liking  me  ?  You 
could  not  help  it,  little  girl.  There  was  no  rea- 
son why  you  should  have  liked  me.  It  was 
kinder  to  be  truthful." 

"But  I  was  so  rude!  Oh,  I  was  so  abom- 
inable. Won't  you  please  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Miss  Hattie,"  he  said,  his  voice  vibrating  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  do,  '  *  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing that  I  hope  you  may  never  have  to  learn  in 
any  other  way.  When  a  man  gets  maimed  for 
life  he  does  not  particularly  care  whether  it  was  a 
gunshot  or  a  swordcut  that  did  it." 

"And  you  won't  forgive  me?"  There  were 
tears  in  the  beseeching  childlike  eyes,  and  yet,  in 
the  gesture  of  entreaty,  a  certain  dignity  which 
was  more  appealing  still. 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  forgive,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  strong  effort  to  govern  his  voice. 
11  But  if  it  will  make  you  any  happier — yes — I 
forgive  you." 


A  Valentine.  231 

He  held  out  a  very  cold  hand,  which  she  took, 
dropping  some  of  her  flowers  at  his  feet. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  she  said  again,  pleadingly, 
with  her  hand  still  in  his. 

"  Sorry  you  do  not  love  me  ?  " 

"Sorry  I  said  I  did  n't,"  she  whispered  very, 
very  softly.  But  Emerson  Swain  thought  he 
should  have  heard  that  whisper  if  he  had  been  in 
battle,  with  the  roar  of  the  cannon  in  his  ears. 

They  walked  home  together  in  the  long  after- 
noon light,  home  to  Ben  and  his  wife,  whom  they 
found  pacing  the  garden  path  arm  in  arm.  These 
long-tried  lovers  looked  incredulously  at  the 
apparition  coming  toward  them.  It  was  many 
weeks  since  they  had  seen  this  tall,  limping  figure 
within  their  gates.  Did  that  usually  grave  face 
ever  before  seem  so  young  and  animated?  did 
those  gray  eyes  ever  before  send  such  a  cheer- 
ful challenge  through  the  intervening  glasses  ? 
And  more  perplexing  still  was  their  own  Hattie, 
decked  out  like  a  sacrificial  lamb,  with  a  look  of 
radiant  meekness  in  her  face,  which  yet  was  a 
little  pale  and  awe-struck. 

She  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  herself,  but  Em- 
erson Swain  was  under  no  embarrassment. 

"  Mrs.  Pratt,"  he  said,  as  they  stopped  before 
her,  "Hattie  has  promised  to  be  my  Valentine 
henceforth  and  forever." 

****** 

"  And  I  believe  they  will  be  very  happy,"  said 
Mrs.  Ben  to  Mr.  Ben,  as  they  talked  it  over  later 
in  the  evening.  "  He  is  not  exactly  the  kind  of 


232  Pratt  Portraits. 

man  I  should  have  supposed  Hattie  would  fancy, 
and  she  is  rather  scatter-brained  to  begin  life  as 
the  wife  of  a  college  professor.  But  they  love 
each  other,  and  that  is  the  principal  thing." 

"Yes,  Martha.  That  is  the  principal  thing. 
There  's  no  doubt  about  that.  I  don't  suppose  it 
really  makes  any  difference  in  the  end,"  Ben 
added,  with  a  chuckle  of  ill-disguised  fatherly 
pride,  "but,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  Hattie 
seems  to  have  done  most  of  the  courting  1 " 


OLD  LADY  PRATT. 

OLD  LADY  PRATT  was  failing,  and  being 
a  shrewd  old  lady,  even  at  the  age  of 
ninety-one,  she  was  very  well  aware  of 
the  fact. 

"  My  faculties  ain't  what  they  used  to  be,"  she 
would  say,  with  all  her  old  decision  in  statement. 
"  I  ain't  what  I  used  to  be,  nor  what  my  mothei 
was  at  my  age,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  flattered 
intothinkin'  I  be." 

Everybody  liked  Old  Lady  Pratt,  though  many 
people  were  a  little  afraid  of  her.  Her  bright, 
black  eyes  dimmed  as  old  age  crept  upon  her,  but 
they  rarely  softened.  The  deep,  clean-cut  furrows 
in  her  dark  face  were  the  marks  of  alertness, 
good-sense,  and  humor,  rather  than  of  gentler 
qualities.  A  black  ' '  front ' '  with  a  straight,  un- 
compromising muslin  "  part,"  hid  the  grace  and 
dignity  of  her  white  hairs.  Her  speech  was 
always  incisive,  often  piquant,  but  never  tender. 
She  sat  so  straight  in  her  chair — thanking  Heaven 
that  she  had  a  back  of  her  own — that  she  never 
gave  that  impression  of  feebleness  which  makes 
old  age  so  irresistible  in  its  appeal  to  the  kind- 
233 


234  Pratt  Portraits. 

hearted.  Dr.  Baxter,  the  oracle  of  the  neighbor-- 
hood, used  to  say  of  her,  that  she  was  "  keen  as 
a  brier,"  and  that  was  the  accepted  estimate. 
The  respect  in  which  she  was  held  among  her 
acquaintances  was  negatively  indicated  by  the 
fact  that  nobody  ever  thought  of  calling  her  little, 
though  her  height  was,  in  reality,  a  trifle  short  of 
five  feet. 

She  suffered  no  pain  nor  discomfort  in  her  latter 
days,  and  she  was  willing  enough  to  ' '  bide  her 
time,"  but  after  her  ninetieth  birthday  she  began 
to  realize  that  life  had  lost  something  of  its  relish. 

'  *  Grandma, ' '  said  her  great-grandchild  Susie 
one  day,  '  *  when  you  are  a  hundred  years  old  your 
name  will  be  in  all  the  papers. ' ' 

The  old  lady  turned  her  gleaming  spectacles 
upon  the  rosy  young  person  of  sixteen,  and  a 
queer  look  came  into  her  face.  ' '  I  hope  my  name 
will  be  in  the  papers  before  that, ' '  she  said,  curtly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Grandma  ?  " 

"  Mean,  child?  Why,  among  the  ' deaths  and 
marriages,'  to  be  sure." 

Miss  Susie  was  rather  a  thoughtful  child,  and 
after  gazing  for  a  moment  at  the  red  flicker  in  the 
isinglass  window  of  the  stove,  she  said,  "  Grand- 
ma, would  you  like  to  live  your  life  all  over  again 
just  as  it  has  been  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  said  Old  Lady  Pratt.  "For 
one  reason,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

' '  I  should  think  it  would  make  you  tired  to 
think  of  all  those  years." 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  235 

A  wonderfully  bright,  youthful  look  came  into 
the  aged  face.  ' '  Nothing  could  make  me  tired 
if  your  grandfather  was  alive  again.  But  there  ! 
What  do  you  know  about  that  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  could  remember  Grandpa  Pratt," 
said  the  little  girl,  sympathetically.  "Tell  me 
about  him." 

"There  is  n't  much  to  tell.  Only  he  was  the 
best  man  that  ever  lived,  I  do  believe.  You  've 
seen  his  picter  ? ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,  Grandma  ;  and  it  looks  so  much  like 
Sir  Walter  Scott's." 

"  He  was  a  great  reader  of  Scott,  and  had  a 
very  high  opinion  of  his  works.  But  I  always 
said  it  was  just  as  honorable  a  calling  to  be  a 
builder  of  houses,  like  your  great-grandfather,  as 
to  be  putting  up  castles  in  the  air  that  never  kept 
the  rain  off  anybody's  head." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  the  isinglass 
gave  an  occasional  crackle,  and  once  the  whole 
body  of  the  stove  seemed  to  stretch  itself  and 
sigh  profoundly. 

"Susie,"  said  grandma,  after  a  while,  "  I  hope 
you  ain't  goin'  to  be  like  your  old-maid  sisters. 
There  's  Bella,  twenty-five  years  old  last  'lection, 
with  no  more  idea  of  marryin'  than  she  had  ten 
years  ago.  Mark  my  words,  child,  a  woman 
should  be  early  married.  Your  grandfather  was 
courtin'  me  when  I  was  your  age,  and  at  seven- 
teen I  was  a  happy  bride." 

"But,  Grandma,"  said  Susie,   deprecatingly, 


236  Pratt  Portraits. 

yet  with  a  light-hearted  laugh,  "there  isn't  a 
single  person  courting  me.  What  am  I  to  do 
about  it?" 

To  the  old  lady  it  was  no  laughing  matter.  She 
frowned  a  little  and  looked  slightly  contemptuous. 
The  rising  generation  seemed  to  her  very  slow 
and  unenterprising,  in  spite  of  their  railroads  and 
telegraphs.  Was  a  man  more  a  man  for  being 
whisked  over  the  earth's  surface  at  the  rate  of 
twenty  miles  an  hour?  Stuff!  How  many  of 
them  would  walk  from  Framingham  to  Boston 
and  back,  as  her  grandfather  had  done,  to  fetch  a 
betrothal  ring  for  his  sweetheart  ?  She  wore  the 
ring  to-day,  a  thin  gold  circlet  with  the  outlines 
of  a  coffin  just  discernible  inside.  The  words, 
"  Till  Death  "  had  worn  quite  away  since  it  came 
into  her  possession. 

But  Old  Lady  Pratt' s  mind  did  not  often  dwell 
upon  the  rising  generation  and  its  shortcomings. 
Even  the  great-great-grandson,  in  whose  small 
person  the  family  beheld  its  fifth  generation  among 
the  living,  had  but  a  transient  hold  upon  her  at- 
tention. From  him  her  thoughts  wandered  to  her 
own  grandchildren  and  their  pranks,  and  there 
were  certain  reminiscences,  especially  of  Uncle 
James,  the  eldest,  which  the  children  were  never 
tired  of  hearing. 

"  Grandma,"  they  would  ask,  "how  did  that 
spot  come  on  the  ceiling?  " 

Now  there  was  in  reality  no  spot  whatever  on 
the  ceiling.  It  had  had  many  a  coat  of  white- 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  237 

wash  in  the  last  forty  years,  whose  passage  had 
left  so  little  impression  on  the  failing  memory. 

"That  spot!"  Grandma  would  answer.  "I 
can't  seem  to  see  it  very  plain,  but  I  guess  that 
must  be  the  spot  your  Uncle  James  made  when 
he  was  a  little  boy." 

* '  Why,  how  could  he  make  a  spot  so  high  up  ? ' ' 

"He  threw  a  spit-ball." 

"  Why,  Grandma  !  And  what  did  you  do  to 
him?" 

"Do?     \boxedhim!" 

This  always  came  out  with  a  snap,  which  de- 
lighted the  souls  of  the  children. 

' '  You  did,  Grandma  ?     Poor  Uncle  James  ! ' ' 

1  *  Poor  Uncle  James,  indeed  !  He  was  as  im- 
pudent,a  young  rascal  as  ever  lived." 

"  Why,  what  did  he  do?  " 

"He  looked  up  in  my  face  and  said,  '  You 
Paddy!'" 

Nothing  could  be  better  than  grandma's  relish 
of  this  story.  She  was  not  a  great  talker,  how- 
ever. In  fact,  her  daily  life  was  a  peculiarly  silent 
one,  her  only  companion  being  her  unmarried 
daughter,  Betsy,  whose  deafness  precluded  all 
possibility  of  conversation.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  the  old  lady  fretted  a  good  deal  about 
this. 

"It  does  seem  to  me,"  she  would  say,  "as 
though  Betsy's  deafness  would  drive  me  crazy." 
Or  again,  when  very  much  vexed  :  "  I  do  believe 
it  ain't  all  deafness.  The  girl  has  n't  got  any 


238  Pratt  Portraits. 

spunk,  that 's  the  trouble.  If  she  had,  she  'd 
make  out  to  understand  something  now  and  then 
by  her  wits." 

But  this  had  been  when  grandma  was  only 
seventy  or  eighty  years  old,  and  the  impatience  of 
youth  was  not  yet  wholly  subdued. 

Now  it  was  different.  She  had  got  used  to  see- 
ing the  large,  loosely  built  figure  always  at  her 
side,  with  its  slightly  bobbing  head,  which  had 
once  been  such  an  annoyance  to  her,  and  she  had 
come  to  appreciate  the  unobtrusive  virtues  of  a 
faithful  slave. 

Aunt  Betsy  had  not  much  spunk,  it  is  true. 
Her  wits  seldom  came  to  the  assistance  of  her  im- 
perfect faculties.  But  she  knew  all  her  mother's 
needs  and  wishes  by  heart ;  and  the  absolutely 
unswerving  devotion,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by 
hour,  of  the  sixty  odd  years  of  her  life  had  come, 
by  the  mere  process  of  accumulation,  to  have  the 
weight  and  importance  in  the  old  lady's  mind 
which  they  deserved.  The  black  eyes  of  the  elder 
woman  often  looked  approvingly  at  the  meek  old 
face  in  its  pretty  frame  of  soft  gray  curls.  It  was 
a  pity  that  Betsy  never  knew  that  the  reason  she 
had  not  been  allowed  the  dignity  of  a  "  false 
front, ' '  to  which  she  had  so  ardently  aspired,  was 
because  her  mother  thought  her  curls  "  too  pretty 
to  be  covered  up. ' ' 

Once  in  a  great  while  when  Betsy  had  rendered 
her  some  especially  timely  service,  the  old  lady 
had  called  her  to  her  side  to  say  :  "  Betsy  you  're 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  239 

a  good  girl.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do 
without  you. ' '  And  Betsy  had  gone  about  with 
a  warm  feeling  at  her  heart  for  weeks  after. 

Thanksgiving  had  always  been  a  great  day  in 
the  Pratt  family,  for  then  its  scattered  members 
came  from  far  and  near  to  keep  the  good  old 
festival.  Their  numbers  had  years  before  out- 
grown the  capacity  of  the  little  old  house  in 
Green  Street,  and  the  celebration  had  been  trans- 
ferred-to  "  Harriet's." 

Harriet  was  Mrs.  Pratt' s  eldest  daughter,  the 
widow  of  a  rich  man,  and  she  dwelt  in  a  very 
grand  house,  with  a  terraced  lawn  in  front  and  a 
cupola  atop,  a  house  where  any  family  might  be 
proud  to  meet  together.  Her  long,  wide  parlors, 
with  their  thick  Turkey  carpets  and  their  red 
velvet  furniture  ;  the  large  mirrors  over  the  two 
black  mantelpieces  which  were  adorned  with  gilt 
candelabra  hung  with  rainbow  prisms ;  the  pier 
glasses  at  either  end,  multiplying  indefinitely 
every  object  in  the  room  ;  the  numerous  oil-paint- 
ings which  had  the  air  of  having  been  bought  by 
the  dozen  ; — all  this  was  very  splendid  indeed. 

And  the  queen  of  this  palace  on  Thanksgiving 
Day  was  Grandma  Pratt.  Kvery  one  paid  his 
respects  first  to  her  as  she  sat  bolt-upright  in  the 
stiff,  high-backed  "  Governor  Winthrop"  arm- 
chair. Aunt  Harriet  took  but  a  secondary  place 
in  her  own  house  on  that  day. 

It  was  as  queen  of  the  New  England  feast  that 
the  old  lady's  memory  always  lived  in  the  minds 


240  Pratt  Portraits. 

of  her  descendants,  perhaps  because  she  was  more 
"herself"  on  the  last  Thanksgiving  of  her  life 
than  at  any  time  later. 

The  great  dinner  with  its  many  courses  may 
have  seemed  a  little  long  to  her,  though  she  drank 
her  annual  glass  of  sherry  with  the  old  relish  ; 
but  it  was  when  they  all  gathered  for  a  frolic  in 
the  brightly  lighted  parlors  that  she  seemed  most 
thoroughly  in  her  element. 

She  joined  in  the  quieter  games,  such  as  "  But- 
ton, button,"  and  "Neighbor,  neighbor,"  and 
grew  much  excited  over  the  traditional  "Blind- 
man's  Buff,"  which  she  witnessed  from  a  remote 
corner  of  the  room,  Aunt  Betsy  sitting  by  to  ward 
off  the  impetuous  "  Blind  Man  "  when  he  made 
too  wild  a  dash  in  their  direction. 

When  the  young  people  were  tired  of  romping 
— they  were  all  young  people  to  Old  I/ady  Pratt — 
they  gathered  about  in  a  far-reaching  circle,  and 
clamored  for  grandma's  stories  of  their  fathers 
and  grandfathers,  and  of  her  own  youth. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  :  the  wide  circle  of  faces, 
— old  and  young,  dark  and  fair,  all  focusing 
upon  one  point — upon  that  small,  upright  figure 
which  time  had  failed  to  bend ;  upon  those 
clear-cut,  animated  features  which  ninety  years 
had  not  subdued.  It  was  a  picture  which  the 
children,  old  and  young,  never  forgot,  and  no 
Sibyl  of  ancient  days  was  ever  listened  to  with 
more  rapt  attention  than  Old  I/ady  Pratt. 

I^ast  of  all  came  the  dance,  which  was  the 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  241 

crowning  pleasure  of  the  gala-day.  As  the  circle 
of  her  listeners  dispersed,  Uncle  James  came  up 
to  Grandma  Pratt,  and  with  old-time  gallantry 
invited  her  to  lead  the  Virginia  reel  with  him. 
After  coquetting  a  little,  as  she  always  did,  and 
reminding  him  that  she  was  an  old  woman,  she 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  to  the  end  of  the  room, 
and,  as  the  long  lines  were  forming,  her  little  old 
feet  tapped  the  floor  impatiently,  and  her  eyes 
grew  bright  behind  her  gold-bowed  spectacles. 
Mary  Anne,  who  was  generally  conceded  to  be  the 
1 '  unselfish  ' '  member  of  the  family,  went  to  the 
Chickering  grand  piano,  and  struck  up  the  jolly 
old  jig,  not  too  fast  (as  it  is  often  played  nowa- 
days), but  allowing  time  for  the  "  steps." 

Grandma  moved  lightly  forward,  and  made  the 
preliminary  courtesy  to  her  opposite  grandson  in 
a  manner  which  should  have  been  a  lesson  to  a 
degenerate  age.  She  had  no  more  admiring  spec- 
tator than  Aunt  Betsy,  who  could  not  dance  her- 
self, because  it  made  her  head  swim,  and  who 
watched  her  mother  with  a  sort  of  awe  as  she 
wound  in  and  out  in  the  mazes  of  the  figure,  her 
step  brisk,  her  head  erect,  and  cap-strings  flying. 
Then  came  the  march,  grandma  leading  her  half 
of  the  procession  with  great  spirit,  a  light  flush 
coming  on  her  old  face,  her  eyes  shining  brighter 
and  blacker  than  ever,  while  the  merry  train  of 
revellers  clapped  their  palms  together  and  gayly 
shouted.  Then  they  all  joined  hands  and  formed 
a  continuous  arch  the  whole  length  of  the  long 

16 


242  Pratt  Portraits. 

room,  and  Old  Lady  Pratt,  with  her  favorite 
grandson  at  her  side,  passed  down  between  her 
children  and  her  children's  children  for  the  last 
time. 

She  panted  a  little  when  they  reached  the  foot 
of  the  row,  and  James  said,  "  I  don't  know  how 
you  feel,  Grandma,  but  I  'm  kind  o'  tuckered  out. 
I^et  's  go  and  look  on." 

"  That 's  a  fib,  James  Spencer,"  she  answered, 
sharply.  "  You  think  I  'm  tired  and  need  to 
rest." 

' '  You,  Grandma  ?  You  never  get  tired.  We 
all  know  that.  But  it  's  because  you  're  so  light 
on  your  feet.  I  guess  you  would  be  tired,  though, 
if  you  'd  gained  fifteen  pounds  in  a  year,  as  I 
have." 

And  he  escorted  her  resolutely  to  the  straight- 
backed  arm-chair,  which  she  was  glad  enough  to 
take,  since  she  had  not  been  obliged  to  '  *  give  in. ' ' 

It  was  but  a  week  after  this  Thanksgiving  Day, 
on  which  she  had  seemed  so  young  and  gay,  that 
Old  L,ady  Pratt  gave  Aunt  Betsy  a  great  fright  by 
not  getting  up  to  breakfast.  It  was  an  event 
without  a  precedent,  and  the  fact  that  she  only 
owned  to  feeling  a  little  "  rheumaticky  "  did  not 
reassure  her  anxious  daughter. 

Immediately  after  the  untasted  breakfast,  Eliza 
was  despatched  to  summon  Harriet,  and  Harriet 
was  soon  at  her  mother's  bedside. 

She  found  the  old  lady  seeming  very  well  and 
bright,  and  quite  scorning  the  idea  of  calling  in 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  243 

Dr.  Baxter.  Rheumatism,  if  rheumatism  it  was, 
was  an  entirely  new  guest  in  the  sound  old  frame, 
and  Harriet  did  not  quite  believe  in  it. 

Just  as  she  was  about  to  leave  her  mother  she 
Said,  abruptly:  "Have  you  done  anything  to 
strain  yourself,  Mother?  It  don't  seem  quite 
natural  for  you  to  give  out  all  at  once  so.  Come, 
tell  me." 

The  old  lady  looked  up  at  her  from  among  her 
feather  pillows  and  said,  rather  petulantly: 
"You  always  was  a  sight  smarter  'n  Betsy.  I 
sometimes  think  you  're  a  leetle  too  smart." 

Harriet  sat  down  again,  not  ill  pleased  to  be 
thus  taxed  with  an  excess  of  smartness. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  Mother." 
^"That  's  jest  as  I  choose,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  some  defiance  in  her  tone.      "Will  you 
promise  not  to  tell  anybody?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will  if  you  say  so.  Did  you  fall 
on  the  ice?" 

"Not  exactly." 

Then,  with  a  curious  manner,  half-reluctant, 
half-amused,  she  said  :  "  I  went  out  into  the  kit- 
chen yesterday  afternoon  when  Eliza  was  up  attic 
changin'  her  gown,  and  there  was  that  curtain 
over  the  sink  all  askew  ag'in.  I '  ve  spoke  to  that 
girl  about  it  forty  times  if  I  have  once,  and  I  was 
too  mad  to  speak  the  forty-fust  time.  So  I  thought 
I  'd  fix  it  myself  and  it  might  be  a  lesson  to  her." 

"  But,  Mother,  you  could  n't  reach  it !  You  're 
not  tall  enough." 


244  Pratt  Portraits. 

"A  pretty  state  of  things  it  would  be  if  we 
could  n't  get  hold  of  anything  that  was  out  of  our 
reach  !  "  the  old  lady  retorted,  with  ready  para- 
dox. But  she  did  not  seem  to  want  to  go  on. 

"Well,  what  did  you  do?" 

"Do?  What  would  anybody  do?  I  got  a 
chair  and  climbed  up  on  the  edge  of  the  sink." 

"  Dear  me  !    And  did  you  strain  yourself?" 

"  No.  I  had  a  fall.  But  I  fixed  that  curtain 
fust ;  straighter  'n  it  had  been  fer  some  time." 

"  And  you  fell  onto  the  floor,  all  that  distance  ? 
I  don't  wonder  you  feel  lame." 

"Well,  no" — and  here  the  reluctance  became 
more  evident, — "  I  fell  into  the  sink!  " 

She  looked  defiantly  at  her  daughter,  as  though 
daring  her  to  laugh.  This  the  daughter  had  no 
inclination  to  do. 

* '  But,  Mother,  how  did  you  ever  get  out  ?  ' '  she 
asked  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  I  got  out  easy  enough.  But  I  felt  kind 
o'  stiff  this  mornin',"  she  admitted,  after  a  pause, 
"  and  I  thought  I  'd  see  how  you  'd  all  take  it  if  I 
was  to  lay  abed  for  once  in  my  life.  But  mind 
you  don't  let  on  to  anybody,"  she  added,  more 
sharply.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  the  laughin' -stock 
of  the  neighborhood  in  my  declinin'  years." 

The  old  lady  was  about  again  in  a  day  or  two, 
but  she  was  pretty  lame  after  this,  and,  indeed,  she 
never  seemed  quite  the  same  again.  She  would 
sometimes  fall  asleep  in  her  chair — a  thing  which 
she  had  never  been  known  to  do  before — and 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  245 

she  was  always  mortified  and  vexed  when  she 
awoke. 

One  afternoon  she  started  up  suddenly  from  a 
nap,  saying,  "  Betsy,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  What  is  it,  Mother?  "  said  Betsy,  turning  her 
head  to  listen. 

"  What  did  you  say  f  "  asked  the  old  lady. 

"Nothin',  Mother,  nothin'." 

The  strained  voice  became  a  little  querulous. 
"  Betsy,  I  ask  you  what  was  you  a-talkin'  about  ?  " 

"Nothin',  Mother,  nothin'  at  all." 

Then  a  flash  of  anger,  her  last  fit  of  "temper," 
lit  up  the  old  eyes,  and  she  cried,  "What  was 
you  a-thinkirf  of  ?  " 

"Nothin',  Mother,  nothin',"  declared  the  be- 
wildered Betsy. 

"  Betsy,  I  heard  ye  /  "  screamed  the  baffied  old 
lady  ;  and  she  sank  back  exhausted,  only  to  fall 
asleep  again  in  a  few  minutes. 

Yes,  Old  Lady  Pratt  was  breaking  up.  She 
did  not  "  take  to  her  bed,"  as  the  saying  is.  She 
died  one  morning  before  "sun-up." 

For  a  few  days  before  her  death  she  kept  her  own 
room,  sitting,  still  upright,  in  the  stuffed  chair,  in 
her  sunny  south  window.  It  was  January,  and 
the  snow  lay  glittering  on  the  ground. 

"Hike  it;  it  's  so  bright  and  cheerful,"  she 
declared,  when  they  asked  her  if  it  was  not  too 
dazzling. 

Betsy  did  not  leave  her  side  for  several  days 
and  nights,  till  at  last  Harriet  insisted  upon 


246  Pratt  Portraits. 

taking  her  place  for  what  proved  to  be  the  last 
night. 

She  arrived,  escorted  by  one  of  her  grandsons, 
early  in  the  evening,  and  they  went  directly  up 
the  narrow  stairs.  As  they  reached  the  upper 
landing  they  heard  a  strange  sound — an  aged, 
quavering  voice  crooning  a  lullaby. 

The  door  of  the  bedroom  stood  open,  and  a 
candle  was  burning  dimly.  The  old  lady  sat 
in  her  stuffed  chair,  with  her  faithful  daughter 
close  beside  her.  She  held  one  of  Betsy's  hands, 
which  she  stroked  softly  from  time  to  time,  as 
she  sang,  in  a  high,  broken  treble,  to  the  old  tune 
of  "Greenville"  : 

"  Hush,  my  child  ;  lie  still  and  slumber  ; 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  sleep." 

Betsy,  alas  !  could  not  hear  the  familiar  lullaby, 
but  she  felt  the  caressing  touch.  The  gray  head 
nodded  gently,  as  was  its  wont ;  but  the  passive 
look  upon  the  patient  face,  across  which  the  light 
of  the  candle  flickered,  had  given  place  to  one  of 
deep  content. 

Harriet  and  the  boy  turned  and  crept  down  the 
stairs  again,  the  boy  hushed  and  embarrassed, 
Harriet  crying  softly  to  herself. 

"  I  'm  glad  I  came,"  she  said,  with  a  sob — 
"I  'm  glad  I  came.  I  think  mother  '11  die  to- 
night." 

Old  I^ady  Pratt  "passed  away"  very  quietly. 
The  going  out  of  the  light  which  had  burned  so 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  247 

bravely  and  steadily  for  more  than  ninety  years 
was  almost  imperceptible  to  the  watchers  at  her 
side. 

The  next  two  days  were  for  Betsy  a  time  of 
bewilderment.  She  sat,  with  a  dazed  look  upon 
her  face,  receiving  the  visits  of  condolence.  As 
one  neighbor  after  another  entered  and  pressed 
her  hand  in  respectful  sympathy,  she  would  rouse 
herself  to  say,  in  a  vague,  wandering  voice : 
"  Mother  's  gone.  Yes,  mother 's  gone."  And 
then  she  would  sink  back  into  silence,  while  the 
conversation  went  on  about  her  in  subdued  tones. 

"  Poor  Aunt  Betsy  !  "  they  all  said.  "  She  's 
quite  broken.  It  almost  seems  as  though  she  were 
losing  her  mind." 

Ah,  it  was  not  her  mind  she  was  losing,  poor 
soul !  She  could  have  better  spared  that.  It  was 
the  heart  which  had  quite  gone  out  of  her. 

Happily  she  was  saved  any  acute  feeling  of  sor- 
row in  those  first  days  by  the  merciful  apathy  that 
had  fallen  upon  her.  She  was  like  a  boat  that 
has  slipped  its  moorings,  but  floats  upon  a  quiet 
sea.  There  were  no  wild  tossings  to  and  fro,  no 
great  waves  to  swallow  up  the  fragile  bark.  It 
might  drift  far  out  on  the  darkening  waters,  or 
the  incoming  tide  might  rudely  crush  it  on  the 
rocks.  For  the  moment  it  floated  gently  and 
aimlessly  upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

The  stir  and  excitement  of  the  funeral  roused 
Betsy  somewhat.  She  was  pleased  with  the 
wreaths  and  crosses  and  other  floral  emblems 


248  Pratt  Portraits. 

which  were  sent  in,  making  the  air  of  the  little 
house  heavy  with  their  fragrance.  She  was  even 
interested  in  her  own  mourning  when  they  brought 
it  to  her  and  helped  her  put  it  on.  Each  token 
of  respect,  each  ceremony  of  grief,  gratified  her, 
as  a  tribute  to  the  imperious  little  woman  who 
had  ruled  her  every  thought  and  action. 

There  was  consolation,  too,  in  the  peaceful 
figure  in  the  rosewood  coffin.  The  face  she  loved 
looked  so  life-like  and  so  serene,  that  she  could 
not  grasp  the  idea  that  it  must  be  put  away  from 
her  sight,  that  all  this  pageant,  as  it  seemed  to 
her  simple  mind,  was  to  end  in  utter  blackness 
and  emptiness. 

She  was  taken  in  the  first  carriage  with  Sister 
Harriet ;  and  even  when  the  mournful  procession 
slowly  moved  on  its  solemn  way  she  was  upheld 
by  a  grateful  consciousness  of  the  long  line  of 
carriages,  with  their  many  inmates,  paying  hon- 
orable tribute  to  her  mother's  memory. 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  day,  and  the  services  at 
the  grave  were  short — short,  but  terribly  real  and 
final.  As  she  stood  there  in  the  cruel  wind,  poor 
drifting  soul,  the  inevitable  tide  was  rising,  and 
the  rocks  were  very  near. 

Harriet  was  to  stay  with  her  that  night ;  and 
when  they  had  had  their  dinner  and  set  the  house 
in  order,  she  proposed  to  Betsy  that  they  should 
both  go  to  their  rooms  and  lie  down. 

Betsy  had  been  looking  on  with  a  feeling  of 
jealousy  foreign  to  her  gentle  nature,  as  Har- 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  249 

net  worked  with  her  about  the  little  rooms, 
straightening  the  furniture  and  replacing  the 
ornaments  upon  the  tables.  She  was  thankful 
to  be  left,  for  a  time,  at  least,  in  possession  of  her 
own,  so  she  meekly  went  up  stairs  and  lay  down 
on  the  bed,  while  Harriet  retired  to  the  "best 
chamber." 

The  rocks  were  very,  very  near,  and  the  poor 
soul  was  fast  drifting  upon  them.  She  lay  upon 
her  bed  for  a  few  minutes  in  helpless  misery. 
Then  she  got  up,  and  sat  awhile  in  her  window. 
The  mere  inaction,  to  which  she  was  unaccus- 
tomed, was  distressing  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
know  where  to  turn  for  escape. 

"Oh,  dear  !  "  she  moaned  softly  to  herself ;  "oh, 
dear  !  I  ain't  got  anybody  to  do  for  any  more." 

She  got  up  and  went  into  her  mother's  room, 
and  moved  about,  taking  up  and  putting  down 
again  the  little  personal  belongings :  the  faded 
pin-cushion  on  the  bureau,  the  old  receipt-book, 
the  worn  spectacle-case  with  the  steel-bowed 
glasses, — the  gold  spectacles  had  only  been  worn 
on  ' '  occasions, ' '  and  were  kept  under  lock-and- 
key.  She  went  to  the  great  double-bed  with  the 
calico  flounce  around  it,  and  softly  smoothed  the 
pillows. 

By  and  by  she  took  a  dust-cloth  and  went  over 
every  bit  of  the  furniture.  It  comforted  her,  for  the 
moment,  when  she  found  a  speck  of  dust  to  be 
removed.  But  when  the  humble  task  was  fin- 
ished, the  comfort  was  past. 


250  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for 
her,"  she  whispered,  as  she  crept  down  the  nar- 
row stairs  to  the  sitting-room. 

Eliza  was  making  a  cheerful  clatter  in  the 
kitchen,  and  some  English  sparrows  were  squab- 
bling in  the  snow  ;  but  for  Betsy's  ears  there  was 
nothing  to  break  the  sense  of  utter  emptiness  and 
desolation. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  she  kept  saying  to  herself—"  oh, 
dear!" 

She  moved  toward  the  parlor,  where  her 
mother  had  lain  in  state.  As  she  opened  the 
door  a  fierce  chill  struck  her,  and  she  went  and 
got  her  little  gray  knit  shawl,  which  she  pulled 
tightly  about  her  shoulders.  Everything  in  the 
parlor  was  in  its  accustomed  place,  yet  nothing 
was  the  same.  She  moved  to  the  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  its 
hard,  cold  surface.  In  the  shadow  beneath  a 
window  she  saw  a  small  object  lying.  She 
picked  it  up.  It  was  a  little  bunch  of  pansies 
which  one  of  the  great-grandchildren  had 
brought  "to  Grandma  Pratt." 

"Oh,  dear!"  murmured  Betsy.  "It  's  the 
pansies.  They  've  been  forgotten.  And  they 
was  always  her  favorite  flower. ' ' 

She  lifted  them  to  her  face  a  moment,  and  then 
she  laid  them  down  on  the  table.  By  and  by  she 
went  to  the  kitchen  and  fetched  a  tumbler  of 
water,  and  set  the  pansies  in  it. 

After  that  she  wandered  aimlessly  about  again. 


Old  Lady  PralL  251 

"Mother  'd  say  I  was  uneasy  as  a  fish,"  she 
suddenly  said  to  herself,  and  sat  resolutely  down. 
Her  eyes  lingered  regretfully  upon  the  pansies  in 
the  tumbler,  and  the  words,  "Mother  'd  ought 
to  have  them  !  Mother  'd  ought  to  have  them  !  " 
dwelt  like  a  refrain  upon  her  lips.  Suddenly  an 
inspiration  came  to  her  that  made  her  heart  beat 
quicker.  Why  should  not  her  mother  have  them  ? 
She  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  sun  was 
still  bright  upon  the  glittering  snow,  though  the 
short  winter's  day  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
'"T  ain't  so  very  far,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"There  '11  be  plenty  o'  time  to  git  back  before 
supper,  and  Harriet  'pears  to  be  asleep.  I  do 
want  to  do  somethin'  for  mother  to-night,  and 
she  'd  ought  to  have  them  flowers." 

With  trembling  haste  she  went  up  stairs  to  her 
room,  creeping  stealthily  past  the  door  of  the 
'  '  best  chamber. ' '  Harriet  was  sound  asleep,  as 
Betsy  might  have  known  if  she  could  have  heard 
the  heavy  breathing  within  the  room.  She  put 
on  her  warmest  cloak,  which  happened  to  be  a 
black  one,  and  her  new  black  bonnet  and  gloves, 
and  hurried  softly  down  the  stairs.  In  her  haste 
she  had  forgotten  the  "Sontag,"  which  she  al- 
ways wore  in  very  cold  weather,  and  it  had  not 
seemed  quite  decorous  to  wind  her  big  white 
' '  cloud ' '  around  the  mourning  bonnet. 

The  air  struck  cold  upon  her  as  she  closed  the 
front  door  behind  her,  and  she  hid  the  pansies  in 
the  folds  of  her  cloak  to  keep  them  warm.  "  It 


252  Pratt  Portraits. 

seems  to  me  colder  'n  it  did  this  morning,"  she 
said,  with  a  shiver,  not  noticing  that  the  sunlight 
was  all  but  gone  from  the  chimneys  and  tree- tops ; 
"  but  mother  'd  ought  to  have  them  pansies  ;  her 
favorite  flower,  too  !  "  Her  teeth  chattered  as  she 
hurried  along,  stumbling  now  and  then,  but  there 
was  the  warmth  of  an  eager  purpose  within  her. 
"  I  wanted  to  do  somethin'  for  mother ;  I  did  want 
to  do  some  little  thing  for  mother."  The  dusk 
was  gathering  fast  about  her,  but  she  knew  the 
way.  "  I  hope  they  won't  miss  me  before  I  git 
back,"  she  whispered,  with  a  guilty  look  at  the 
darkening  sky ;  '  *  they  might  git  worried. ' '  And 
she  pushed  on,  faster  and  faster,  through  side 
streets  and  alleys,  an  increasing  eagerness  urging 
her  on  as  she  approached  her  goal. 

Harriet's  family  and  Anson's  had  lots  in  the 
new  "Woodland  Cemetery,"  but  Old  Lady  Pratt 
and  her  husband  were  lying  side  by  side  in  the 
quieter  resting-place  of  their  own  generation, 
known  as  ' '  the  old  burying-ground. ' ' 

There  was  no  wind  stirring,  and  as  Aunt  Betsy 
hurried  on  and  on,  and  saw  the  stars  coming  out 
in  the  clear  sky,  there  was  a  growing  gladness  in 
her  heart,  and  she  scarcely  noted  the  deadly  chill 
that  was  creeping  upon  her. 

The  gates  of  the  old  burying-ground  were 
never  locked,  and  there  was  nought  to  hinder 
her  as  she  pushed  them  aside  with  her  benumbed 
hands  and  entered  in. 

The  Pratt  lot  was  in  a  sheltered  corner  not  far 


Old  Lady  Pratt.  253 

from  the  entrance,  and  Betsy  went  to  it,  without 
hesitation.  There  it  was,  with  its  row  of  modest 
head-stones,  and  the  black  break  in  the  snow, 
which  marked  the  newly  made  grave.  It  looked 
very  black  indeed  in  the  starlight,  and  Betsy 
shuddered  with  a  feeling  stronger  than  the  outer 
cold. 

She  laid  the  pansies,  wilted  with  frost,  upon  the 
dark  mound,  and  then  she  sat  down  on  a  bench 
in  the  shelter  of  the  high  board  fence  to  rest. 
The  sky  was  sparkling  with  stars,  and  she  looked 
up  at  them  with  a  sudden  glow  of  hope  and  joy. 

"  Mother  's  up  there,'*  she  said  within  herself, 
for  her  cold  lips  refused  their  office.  "  Seems  to 
me  as  though  I  could  see  her  eyes  a-shinin'  down. 
I  wonder  if  she  's  pleased  to  have  them  pansies  ?  " 

A  feeling  of  warmth  and  well-being  stole  upon 
her  as  she  sat  on  the  old  bench,  gazing  no  longer 
at  the  dark  grave,  but  at  the  starry  heavens. 

Yes,  it  did  seem  as  though  her  mother's  eyes 
were  shining  somewhere  among  those  stars,  and 
as  she  looked  longingly  toward  them  there 
sounded  in  her  poor  unhearing  ears  the  sweet- 
est words  that  had  ever  reached  them :  "  Betsy, 
you  're  a  good  girl ;  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  without  you." 

Over  and  over,  like  a  sweet  refrain,  those  words 
sounded,  while  the  sense  of  warmth  and  bright- 
ness deepened  upon  her.  Then  her  eyes  closed 
but  did  not  seem  to  shut  out  the  glory  of  the 
heavens.  And  hearing  still  those  comforting 


254  Pratt  Portraits. 

words,  her  gray  head  dropped  upon  her  breast, 
and  she  fell  gently  and  happily  asleep. 

After  a  night  of  anxious  search,  they  found  her 
there  in  the  early  dawn. 

"  Poor  Aunt  Betsy  !  "  some  one  said.  "  She 
must  have  gone  crazy. '  * 

"  That  ain't  the  face  of  a  crazy  woman,"  said 
Brother  Ben,  with  a  choke  in  his  voice.  "It  *s 
the  face  of  a  transfigured  saint.  God  bless  her ! ' ' 
And  he  knew  in  his  loving  heart  that  already  the 
benediction  rested  upon  her. 


XL 

MARY  ANNE. 

THANK  you,  dear  child." 
The  voice  in  which  these  words  were 
spoken    was    of   that    soft,    uncertain 
quality  in  which  a  hint  of  querulous- 
ness  may  be  detected.     The  speaker's  face  was 
the  face  of  a  nervous  invalid. 

* '  Thank  you,  dear  child, ' '  she  said  sweetly, 
and  her  daughter's  cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure. 
Mary  Anne  Spencer  knew  no  greater  joy  than 
a  word  of  appreciation  from  those  lips  could 
bestow.  She  left  the  room  with  heightened  color 
and  elastic  step. 

"How  unselfish  Mary  Anne  is!"  said  Mrs. 
Spencer,  as  the  door  closed  behind  her  daughter. 

The  remark  fell  upon  unheeding  ears.  Mr. 
James  Spencer  was  far  too  much  engrossed  in  his 
evening  paper  to  give  a  thought  to  so  common- 
place a  theme  as  Mary  Anne's  unselfishness. 
Every  one  knew  that  Mary  Anne  was  unselfish, 
every  one  said  that  she  was.  There  was  no  more 
doubt  on  the  subject  than  upon  the  color  of  her 
hair  or  of  her  eyes,  and  those  who  praised  her 
were  totally  unconscious  of  the  patronizing  tone 
which  lurked  in  their  commendations. 

255 


256  Pratt  Portraits. 

Unselfishness  is  a  virtue  which  is  seldom  ques- 
tioned, but,  if  carried  to  excess,  it  places  its 
owner  at  a  manifest  disadvantage.  It  is  a  hin- 
drance to  personal  success,  and  whoever  may 
have  first  made  the  statement,  the  world  surely 
did  not  wait  for  his  utterance  before  discovering 
that  "  nothing  succeeds  like  success." 

James  Spencer,  himself  a  successful  man,  un- 
acquainted with  the  first  principles  of  self-abnega- 
tion, did  not  concern  himself  much  with  his 
daughter's  character.  She  was  useful  to  him  in 
many  ways,  but  her  personality  failed  to  interest 
him.  He  would  not  have  acknowledged  even  to 
himself  that  he  found  her  amiability  monotonous. 
Indeed,  Mary  Anne's  "  crying  virtue"  as  her 
father  once  called  it  in  a  moment  of  irritation, 
had  never  awakened  a  distinct  misgiving  in  any 
one's  mind,  excepting  in  that  of  her  father's 
grandmother,  Old  L,ady  Pratt. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  Mary  Anne's  un- 
selfishness!"  'the  independent  old  lady  would 
exclaim.  "I  've  no  patience  with  her." 

"But,  Grandma!"  would  be  the  rejoinder, 
"don't  you  think  her  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  is 
very  beautiful  ?" 

"  A  fig  for  her  sperrit  of  self-sacrifice  !  Before 
you  know  it,  it  '11  be  all  the  sperrit  she  's  got  left  ! 
I  can  tell  you  something  that  's  a  long  sight  bet- 
ter than  self-sacrifice,  and  that 's  a  good,  whole- 
some bit  of  self-assertion  !  We  wa'  n't  made  to  lie 
down  for  other  folks  to  walk  over.  What 's  the 


Mary  Anne.  257 

good  of  a  backbone,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  not 
so 's  we  can  stand  up  straight  and  make  the  most 
of  the  chances  the  Lord  gives  us  !  " 

This  had  been  the  old  lady's  stand  from  the 
very  first,  and  she  held  her  position  stoutly  to  the 
last.  The  "  unselfish"  Mary  Anne  had  always 
given  her  greater  cause  for  uneasiness  than  did 
Mary  Anne's  scapegrace  brother  Tom,  who,  in 
his  boyhood,  was  the  despair  of  his  other  elders. 

One  day,  in  her  extreme  old  age,  Old  L,ady 
Pratt  gave  still  stronger  expression  to  her  views 
than  she  had  hitherto  done.  For  on  this  occasion 
she  took  her  daughter  Harriet  (Mary  Anne's 
grandmother)  into  her  confidence  on  a  point 
which  she  had  never  before  touched  upon. 

"  I  tell  you  what 't  is,  Harriet,"  she  said,  with 
her  old  eyes  snapping,  and  her  knitting-needles 
glinting  faster  than  ever.  "  I  tell  you  what 't  is  ! 
I  ain't  lived  ninety  years  in  this  world  without 
findin'  out  that  a  little  spunk  is  as  good  for  other 
folks  as  't  is  for  yourself.  It  's  my  opinion  that 
women  like  Mary  Anne  do  more  mischief  than 
they  'd  relish  bein'  called  to  account  for.  There 's 
Betsy,  now  !  You  don't  'spose  I  'm  any  the  better 
for  havin'  ordered  her  about  for  more  'n  sixty 
years  runnin'  ?  ' ' 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  patient  daughter 
with  a  softened,  pitiful  expression. 

"  Poor  Betsy  !  She  ain't  to  blame,  seein'  she 's 
deaf  as  a  post.  She  's  a  good  girl,  and  she  'd  ben 

smart 's  anybody  if  she  could  only  ha'  heard  a 
17 


258  Pratt  Portraits. 

little  of  what  folks  was  sayin' .  But  there ! 
There  's  no  need  o'  cryin'  over  spilt  milk.  All 
I  've  got  to  say  is,  there  ain't  no  sech  excuse  for 
Mary  Anne,  and  I  declare  for  't,  I  sometimes 
feel  's  though  I  should  like  to  shake  her" 

Now  neither  the  many  who  praised,  nor  yet  the 
one  who  censured,  really  had  the  clue  to  the 
girl's  character.  Old  Lady  Pratt,  with  all  her 
shrewdness,  supposed,  as  the  rest  of  the  world 
did,  that  Mary  Anne  was  inherently  and  spon- 
taneously unselfish.  That  when  she  gave  up 
pleasures  that  others  might  enjoy  them,  when  she 
sacrificed  her  own  inclinations  that  she  might  do 
a  service  for  some  one  else,  it  was  because  of  a 
quality  in  her  nature  different  from  anything  in 
her  companions. 

The  truth  was,  however,  that  Mary  Anne's 
unselfishness  was  a  refuge,  to  which  she  in- 
stinctively had  resort,  impelled  thereto  by  her  two 
ruling  characteristics — self-distrust  and  a  craving 
for  approbation. 

Mary  Anne  was  the  eldest  child  of  James 
Spencer,  a  man  of.  peremptory  manners,  though 
of  a  really  yielding  disposition.  His  other  chil- 
dren had  never  found  any  difficulty  in  ' '  getting 
round  Father. ' '  It  was  only  his  eldest  daughter 
who  stood  in  awe  of  him.  This  may  have  been 
one  reason  why  she  was  not  a  favorite  with  her 
father.  From  the  time  when  she  was  a  little 
child,  his  commands  and  admonitions  had  fright- 
ened her.  He  had  a  way  of  coming  to  the  foot 


MARY  ANNE 


Mary  Anne.  259 

of  the  stairs,  when  there  was  too  much  noise  in 
the  nursery,  and  saying  "  Hst !  "  and  that  sharp, 
penetrating  sound  would  send  cold  shivers  down 
her  back,  even  when  she  was  doing  her  best  to 
keep  her  little  flock  in  order. 

She  was  very  young  when  she  began  to  regard 
the  little  ones  as  her  special  charge.  Her  mother, 
who  had  little  of  what  our  grandmothers  called 
' '  constitution, ' '  had  always  had  her  own  hands 
full  with  the  care  of  the  youngest  baby,  and  she 
had  left  the  others  more  and  more  to  Mary  Anne's 
guidance  and  oversight.  Mary  Anne  appeared 
to  take  naturally  to  the  task.  To  all  the  world 
she  seemed  to  be  a  good,  plodding  girl,  quite 
without  desires  and  aspirations  on  her  own  ac- 
count. The  fact  that  it  took  brains  as  well  as 
patience  to  accomplish  what  she  had  always  done 
never  seemed  to  dawn  upon  those  about  her.  All 
her  usefulness,  and  no  one  denied  its  magnitude, 
was  attributed  to  her  being  '  *  so  unselfish, ' '  and, 
proud  of  the  one  virtue  with  which  she  was 
credited,  Mary  Anne  clung  to  her  reputation  and, 
unconsciously  perhaps,  endeavored  to  augment  it. 
So  great  was  her  thirst  for  praise  that  a  word  of 
thanks,  a  smile  of  appreciation,  filled  her  cup  of 
happiness  to  the  brim,  and  no  price  was  too  high 
to  pay  for  such  a  reward.  It  must  be  recorded, 
however,  that  none  of  Mary  Anne's  beneficiaries 
were  lavish  in  their  gratitude.  Her  father,  as 
has  been  seen,  took  her  good  deeds  for  granted 
and  wasted  no  words  upon  them.  His  wife,  on 


260  Pratt  Portraits. 

her  part,  had  so  early  formed  the  habit  of  shifting 
the  burden  of  her  cares  upon  her  strong  young 
daughter's  shoulders,  that  now,  when  there  were 
no  more  babies  to  tend,  she  still  looked  upon 
Mary  Anne  as  her  chief  support,  and  accepted 
the  girl's  services  as  naturally  and  unthinkingly 
as  she  did  those  of  the  old  family  horse,  or  of  the 
paid  house-maids.  It  was  because  her  ' '  Thank 
you,  dear  child  !  "  was  rare  that  it  sent  the  color 
into  her  daughter's  cheeks. 

Mrs.  James  Spencer's  children — and  there  were 
nine  of  them — were  a  plump  and  hearty  race,  and 
all  of  them,  excepting  Mary  Anne,  were  governed 
by  that  healthy  spirit  of  self-seeking  to  which  the 
world  in  reality  owes  so  much. 

"  Mary  Anne!  Mary  Anne!"  was  the  cry 
from  morning  till  night.  '  *  Mary  Anne !  Come 
and  help  me  do  my  sums  !  "  Or  :  * '  Mary  Anne  ! 
I  've  torn  a  streak-o'-lightning  hole  in  my  trou- 
sers ! "  Or  :  "  Mary  Anne  !  I  've  made  a  list  of 
errands  for  you  if  you  're  going  to  town. ' '  Some- 
times a  careless  ' '  Thank  you  ' '  was  tossed  her  for 
these  services  ;  oftener,  perhaps,  it  was  forgotten. 

If  any  one  of  the  children  was  taken  sick  in  the 
night  Mary  Anne  was  sure  to  be  called  up,  and 
young  Dr.  Winship,  who  had  succeeded  to  his 
father's  practice,  declared  that  she  was  a  "  born 
nurse."  If  Miss  Plimpton,  the  dressmaker,  was 
employed  by  the  day  it  was  Mary  Anne  who 
settled  down,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  do 
seamstress  work  until  the  dressmaking  dispensa- 


Mary  Anne.  261 

tion  was  past.  It  was  Mary  Anne  who  played 
backgammon  with  her  father  of  an  evening  ;  it 
was  Mary  Anne  who  bathed  her  mother's  head 
when  it  ached  ;  who  beguiled  the  younger  children 
to  bed  with  tales  of  gnomes  and  fairies,  of  good 
little  girls  and  bad  little  boys;  it  was  "Miss 
Mary  Anne  ' '  to  whom  the  servants  came  in  any 
domestic  emergency.  She  used  sometimes  to 
wish  that  she  had  been  given  a  gentler,  more 
musical  name,  since  she  was  to  hear  it  called  in 
so  many  keys,  by  so  many  voices,  to  so  many 
ends.  She  had  been  named  for  her  mother,  who, 
however,  had  always  been  called  "Nannie.'* 
"And  she  's  always  been  treated  'Nannie,'' 
Mary  Anne  sometimes  said  to  herself,  rejoicing  in 
the  gentleness  with  which  everybody  approached 
the  delicate,  dependent  woman.  Mary  Anne 
loved  her  mother  with  a  devotion  which  was 
maternal  in  its  tenderness  and  generosity ;  and 
next  to  her  mother  she  loved  her  troublesome 
brother,  Tom. 

Tom,  the  "scapegrace"  of  the  family,  was 
four  years  her  junior.  He  was  no  less  bent  upon 
having  his  own  way  than  were  his  brothers  and 
sisters.  But  where  they  simply  demanded,  he 
wheedled.  Now  wheedling  involves  many  little 
expressions  of  affection,  with  a  pinch  of  flattery 
thrown  in,  and  now  and  then  a  kiss  crops  out  in 
the  process.  When  Tom  told  Mary  Anne  that 
she  was  the  best  sister  a  fellow  ever  had  he  was 
merely  making  a  statement  of  fact,  which  the 


262  Pratt  Portraits. 

others,  if  called  upon,  would  have  willingly 
endorsed,  but  it  so  happened  that  he  was  the  only 
one  who  ever  thought  of  putting  his  opinion  into 
words.  And  when  he  had  made  some  such 
demonstration,  Mary  Anne's  cheeks  would  flush, 
and  all  day  long  she  would  gloat  over  the  recol- 
lection as  a  miser  gloats  over  his  gold.  She  was 
not  as  unconscious  as  so  good  a  girl  should  have 
been.  When  she  played  the  piano  for  a  whole 
evening  that  a  party  of  boys  and  girls  might 
dance,  she  was  not  above  reflecting  that  they 
owed  their  enjoyment  to  her.  When  she  had 
stroked  her  mother's  temples  until  her  arm  felt 
like  anguished  lead,  and  when  she  finally  saw 
sleep  steal  over  the  worn  face,  she  would  glory  in 
the  thought  that  it  was  she  who  had  brought 
relief.  She  would  have  begrudged  the  office  to 
any  other  hand.  Happily,  Mary  Anne  was  not 
morbidly  conscientious  or  introspective.  Had 
she  been  so,  she  would  have  detected  her  own 
foibles,  and  all  her  innocent  pleasure  would  have 
been  spoiled.  She  was  now  twenty-six  years  of 
age,  and  she  had  never  yet  thought  of  living  a 
life  of  her  own.  There  was  only  one  very  strong 
desire  which  she  cherished  on  her  own  account, 
and  that  one  desire  was  for  a  musical  education. 
She  had  been  taught  piano-playing  when  she  was 
a  little  girl,  but  after  she  had  attained  such  pro- 
ficiency as  to  be  able  to  play  for  dancing,  the 
lessons  had  been  stopped.  She  had  a  strong 
musical  bent,  and  practising  was  still  her  one 


Mary  Anne.  263 

indulgence.  She  played  Beethoven  sonatas  and 
Mendelssohn  Songs  Without  Words,  in  her  own 
way,  which  was  a  much  better  way  than  any  one 
had  yet  discovered.  Her  mother's  mother  had 
recently  died,  leaving  each  of  her  grandchildren 
a  legacy  of  five  hundred  dollars,  and  Mary  Anne 
intended  using  it  for  music  lessons  whenever  she 
should  ' '  get  time. ' '  The  money,  meanwhile, 
had  been  placed  in  the  savings  bank,  where  it 
might  increase  itself  to  this  excellent  end. 

But  one  day  Tom  came  begging,  and  before  he 
left  her  she  had  loaned  him  her  $500,  for  a  secret 
purpose  which  he  could  not  reveal,  but  which  he 
was  "  sure  she  would  approve."  Tom  was  in  a 
banker's  office,  and  had  doubtless  heard  of  a 
promising  investment,  and  nothing  could  have 
seemed  more  natural  than  that  he  should  have 
the  use  of  her  money. 

One  fine  evening  in  April  Mary  Anne  found 
herself  mistress  of  the  house  and  of  her  own  time. 
Her  father  had  taken  his  wife  and  two  of  his 
daughters  to  hear  Christine  Nilsson  sing.  The 
two  youngest  children  were  in  bed,  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  were  scattered  in  one  or  another 
direction.  The  evening  was  mild  and  the  house 
rather  warm.  Mary  Anne  opened  the  parlor 
windows,  lighted  the  candles  in  the  brackets 
of  the  old  square  piano,  and  fell  to  practising 
the  Moonlight  Sonata.  Untutored  as  she  was, 
there  was  nothing  ordinary  or  slipshod  in  the 
girl's  playing.  What  she  lacked  in  technique 


264  Pratt  Portraits. 

was  more  than  atoned  for,  to  the  uncritical  ear, 
by  the  spirit  and  expression  with  which  she 
played.  She  had  practised  long  and  carefully  on 
this  sonata,  and  to-night,  for  the  first  time,  she 
was  giving  rein  to  her  fingers.  She  played  the 
third  movement,  with  its  splendid  crescendos  and 
beautiful  periods,  three  times  over,  each  time 
with  gathering  impetuosity  and  passion.  It  was 
something  to  arrest  any  listener. 

So  at  least  thought  one  passer-by,  as  he  paused 
at  the  gate.  It  was  young  Dr.  Winship,  a  man 
of  German  tastes  and  traditions,  to  whom  the 
Moonlight  Sonata  was  an  article  of  faith. 

"Who  on  earth  can  that  be?"  he  asked 
himself. 

The  young  man  had  a  great  liking  and  respect 
for  the  family  in  the  large,  rambling  yellow  house, 
with  the  little  white  fence  around  the  roof,  and 
the  pear-trees  in  the  front  yard.  He  liked  them 
all  very  much,  and  he  flattered  himself  that  he 
knew  them  pretty  thoroughly,  but  he  had  never 
discovered  any  musical  genius  among  them. 

Mary  Anne  was  just  beginning  the  movement 
for  the  third  time,  and  the  opening  passages  went 
rolling  up  and  on  like  great  ocean  breakers.  Dr. 
Winship  listened  a  few  minutes  with  growing 
incredulity,  and  then  he  opened  the  gate  and 
walked  up  the  path.  Just  as  the  performer,  rather 
breathless  and  excited,  had  finished  the  move- 
ment he  was  ushered  into  the  parlor.  There  sat 
his  "born  nurse,"  in  the  soft,  transfiguring 


Mary  Anne,  265 

candle-light,  turning  a  starlit  face  toward  him, 
and  rising  with  a  dazed,  uncertain  gesture  to 
meet  him. 

But  she  was  herself  in  a  moment,  and  came 
forward,  saying  deprecatingly  : 

"  Oh  Dr.  Winship  !  I  am  so  sorry  everybody  is 
out ! " 

"  It  did  n't  sound  as  though  everybody  were 
out  a  moment  ago,"  he  said,  grasping  her  hand 
very  warmly.  "  I  came  in  to  thank  you  for  your 
music. ' ' 

"  Did  you  like  it  ?  "  she  cried,  with  a  childlike 
spontaneous  delight  which  was  very  winning. 

"  Does  n't  everybody?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  never  play  to  anybody  except  for  dancing." 

"  I  hope  you  will  play  for  me  sometimes.  But 
not  to-night."  he  added,  gently.  "You  have 
played  yourself  into  a  fever." 

It  was  the  most  delicious  thing  Mary  Anne  had 
experienced  in  all  her  life.  First  the  praise  and 
then  this  solicitude  and  gentleness. 

'  *  Where  did  you  learn  to  play  ?  "  he  asked 
presently,  as  he  sat  beside  the  music-stand  look- 
ing over  the  little  collection  of  pieces. 

"  I  never  learned.  That  is  just  the  trouble," 
she  said.  "  I  took  lessons  till  I  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  then  it  got  crowded  out." 

"  Crowded  out,  when  you  were  twelve  years 
old  !  What  a  busy  child  you  must  have  been  ! ' ' 

She  laughed  and  said,  "  I  'm  afraid  I  was  only 
slow." 


266  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Are  all  your  people  out  to-night?  I  was  in 
luck  ! — I  mean, ' '  he  corrected  himself,  ' '  I  was 
in  luck  that  you  should  not  have  gone  too." 

1 '  They  have  all  gone  to  town  to  hear  Nilsson. ' : 

"  I  wonder  how  they  managed  to  leave  the 
musician  of  the  family  at  home."  The  situation 
made  him  unconventional. 

"Father  could  only  get  four  tickets,"  she 
answered  simply. 

Dr.  Winship  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had 
always  associated  this  girl  with  household  cares, 
that  he  had  found  her  on  three  separate  occasions 
established  as  night-nurse  in  a  sick-room,  that 
when  he  had  called  socially,  he  had  invariably 
been  told  that  Mary  Anne  was  "playing  back- 
gammon with  Father"  or  was  "  up-stairs  with 
Mother. ' '  A  feeling  of  indignation  got  the  better 
of  him. 

1 '  Miss  Spencer, ' '  he  asked,  * '  do  you  never  by 
any  chance  have  any  good  times  ?  " 

Mary  Anne  gave  her  questioner  a  surprised 
look.  Then  she  replied  with  a  sort  of  apologetic 
dignity : 

"  I  always  have  a  good  time." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  Then  you  are  the  first  person  I 
ever  knew  who  got  her  exact  deserts." 

Having  thus  relieved  his  mind,  the  visitor 
discreetly  left  personalities  alone.  They  fell  to 
talking  of  music  and  of  Germany,  of  foreign  peo- 
ple and  remote  things,  and  for  one  reason  or 
another,  both  these  young  people  became  entirely 


Mary  Anne.  267 

absorbed  in  conversation,  and  both  felt  a  pang  of 
regret  as  the  tall  clock  in  the  dining-room  sent 
its  solemn  voice  echoing  through  the  house  pro- 
claiming the  hour  of  ten. 

Dr.  Winship  sprang  promptly  to  his  feet,  for  he 
prided  himself  upon  knowing  how  to  go.  But 
before  precipitating  himself  out  of  the  door,  as 
was  his  wont,  he  shook  his  entertainer  cordially 
by  the  hand,  and  said,  with  unmistakable  sin- 
cerity:  "  I  don't  know  when  I  have  enjoyed  an 
evening  so  much.  May  I  bring  my  violin  next 
time?" 

"  Next  time  !  "  The  words  sounded  like  music, 
the  very  clang  of  the  closing  door  resounded  like 
a  paean  through  the  house. 

As  Mary  Anne  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
trying  to  get  her  balance,  there  was  a  sharp  rap 
on  the  door  which  she  opened  hastily. 

1 1  Have  you  seen  the  new  moon  over  your  left 
shoulder  ?  ' '  asked  the  young  doctor,  with  amus- 
ing eagerness.  "  It  has  rained  so  much  lately  I 
thought  you  might  have  missed  it. ' ' 

"  No.  I  have  n't  seen  it.  But  you  ought  to 
look  at  it  over  your  right  shoulder. ' ' 

"Oh,  no!  That  's  a  great  mistake.  The 
Germans,  who  are  up  in  mystic  lore,  taught  me 
better." 

She  held  back  doubtfully. 

"I  've  always  been  so  particular  about  it,"  she 
said. 

"  Well,  now.    Just  trust  to  me,  and  try  it  the 


268  Pratt  Portraits. 

other  way.  See,  it  will  be  gone  behind  the 
church  in  a  few  minutes.  There  !  stand  that  way 
and  turn  your  head  to  the  left.  There  now  ! 
See  if  you  don't  begin  to  have  good  luck  as  is 
good  luck. ' ' 

She  laughed  a  delighted  little  laugh  that  was 
pleasant  to  hear. 

*  *  I  always  supposed  you  were  all  science, ' '  she 
cried. 

' '  And  I  always  thought  you  were  all  useful- 
ness, ' '  he  retorted.  "It  is  a  great  relief  to  know 
the  truth  about  you." 

"  And  I  'm  very  glad  you  're  so  light-minded." 

She  had  her  hand  on  the  door  to  go  in.  Her 
face,  turned  toward  the  moonlight,  looked  won- 
derfully youthful  and  sweet.  Mary  Anne's  cares 
had  after  all  been  of  a  kind  to  leave  the  spirit 
unclouded. 

1 '  Did  you  ever  breathe  anything  so  good  as 
this  air  ?  "  the  young  man  asked,  actually  linger- 
ing on  the  brink,  as  he  had  seen  and  despised 
others  for  doing. 

"  It 's  the  spring,"  she  answered,  simply.  He 
remembered  her  attitude  and  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  years  after,  when  they  listened  together  to 
the  same  words  set  to  heavenly  music. 

"Miss  Spencer,"  he  cried,  impulsively,  "I 
wish  the  next  time  anybody  is  sick,  you  would 
let  somebody  else  sit  up  with  them.  It  would  do 
them  good." 

She  shook  her  head  with  much  decision. 


Mary  Anne.  269 

"There  is  n't  anybody  else — and,  besides,  I 
like  it. " 

" There  's  the  usefulness  cropping  out  again," 
he  cried.  ' '  Good-bye. ' ' 

"And  were  n't  you  a  trifle  professional  just 
now  ?  ' '  she  called  gayly  after  him. 

Then  she  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  stood 
in  the  brightly  lighted  hall,  trying  once  more  to 
get  her  bearings. 

How  foolish  she  was  to  be  so  excited  and  happy 
over  a  little  thing.  It  was  probably  just  like 
what  was  happening  to  other  girls  all  the  time. 
vShe  had  had  a  very  pleasant  evening,  of  course, 
but  what  of  that  ?  And  there  were  the  candles  on 
the  piano  burnt  down  to  their  very  sockets,  and 
she  must  go  directly  and  make  a  cup  of  tea 
against  her  mother's  return. 

She  busied  herself  with  this  and  other  duties, 
and  tried  to  bring  herself  to  reason,  but  do  what 
she  would,  think  what  she  would,  she  was 
changed,  and  the  next  morning  before  breakfast 
she  determined  not  to  put  off  any  longer  getting 
herself  a  spring  suit,  even  if  the  rest  of  the  family 
were  not  already  provided  for.  This,  in  itself, 
was  enough  to  prove  that  a  revolution  had  taken 
place  in  her  mind.  Yet  so  strongly  did  her  old 
life-long  habits  assert  themselves  as  the  day  wore 
on,  that,  but  for  an  opportune  catastrophe,  she 
might  again  have  fallen  a  victim  to  them. 

The  second  day  following  her  pleasant  evening 
was  a  New  England  holiday,  the  igth  of  April. 


270  Pratt  Portraits. 

Mr.  Spencer  did  not  go  to  his  office  in  town,  and 
Mary  Anne  was  not  surprised  to  be  summoned  to 
him  in  the  library.  She  went,  prepared  to  render 
some  chance  service,  or  answer  some  question 
about  household  affairs.  To  her  consternation 
she  found  Tom  there,  looking  very  pale  and  des- 
perate, standing  before  his  father,  whose  face  was 
stern  and  lowering. 

"  Well,  Mary  Anne  !  "  was  her  father's  greet- 
ing. "  Here  's  a  pretty  state  of  things  !  " 

"  Why,  Father.     What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Matter  enough  !  Tom  's  been  gambling  in 
stocks,  and  owes  a  thousand  dollars,  and  there  's 
nobody  to  blame  for  it  but  you." 

"  Father  !  "  Tom  remonstrated. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Tom,"  cried  his  father, 
hotly.  "It  's  exactly  as  I  say.  If  Mary  Anne 
had  n't  been  an  absolute  fool,  she  would  have 
known  better  than  to  lend  you  money.  I  don't 
count  that  among  his  debts,"  James  Spencer 
added,  bitterly.  '  *  It  serves  you  right  to  lose  it, 
and  I,  for  one,  shall  not  make  it  up  to  you." 

' '  But,  Father, ' '  Tom  began  again. 

*  *  Hold  your  tongue,  Tom.  Do  you  hear  me  ? 
Tom  's  been  a  fool,  too,"  he  went  on,  turning  to 
his  daughter ;  ' '  but  he  has  at  least  had  the  man- 
liness to  own  up.  He  's  not  quite  lost  to  all 
sense  of  decency  yet.  But  he  's  headed  straight 
down  hill.  He  's  got  a  taste  for  gambling,  and 
if  he  goes  straight  to  the  deuce,  I  swear  there  's 
nobody  to  blame  but  you." 


Mary  Anne.  271 

Mary  Anne  stood  half  stunned  by  the  violence 
of  the  attack.  Could  it  be  she  whom  her  father 
was  saying  such  things  about  ?  She  ?  She  who 
would  have  given  her  life  for  Tom?  She  who 
had  never  had  a  thought  for  herself?  Who  had 
sacrificed  every  natural  wish  and  taste  to  serve 
her  family?  Who  had  relinquished  her  little 
treasure  because  Tom  had  persuaded  her  that  it 
would  make  a  man  of  him  to  have  a  taste  of  en- 
terprise ?  She  was  to  be  Tom's  ruin  ?  A  hot 
flush  of  indignation  went  over  her.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  experienced  a  great  throb  of 
self-assertion.  In  a  voice  as  peremptory  as 
James  Spencer's  own  she  demanded:  "Are  you 
talking  about  me,  Father?  Do  you  say  that  / 
have  ruined  Tom  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  do  !  You  have  systematically  spoiled 
him  all  his  life  ;  and  now ' ' 

' '  I  have  systematically  spoiled  you  all !  "  cried 
Mary  Anne,  with  a  sudden,  uncontrollable  en- 
ergy of  rebellion.  ' '  Every  one  of  you  !  From 
you,  Father,"  looking  him  unflinchingly  in  the 
eye,  "down  to  little  Ben  and  Jimmy.  I  've 
spoiled  you  so  that  you ' ' 

"  Highty  !  tighty  !  Is  this  the  self-sacrificing 
Mary  Anne,  who  prides  herself ' ' 

Again  she  interrupted  him.  She  was  no  more 
afraid  of  her  father  now,  than  she  was  of  the 
Moonlight  Sonata,  and  flinging  herself  with 
the  whole  force  of  her  nature  upon  the  catastro- 
phe, she  cried,  "  I  will  never  be  self-sacrificing 


272  Pratt  Portraits. 

again  as  long  as  I  live  !  I  will  never  do  another 
thing  for  anybody  else  !  I  am  going  to  be  a  per- 
fect pig  !" 

James  Spencer  stared  for  a  few  seconds  in 
speechless  astonishment  at  his  daughter,  stand- 
ing before  him  with  flaming  cheeks  and  defiant 
eyes.  Had  she  lost  her  mind,  or  had  she  become 
possessed  of  the  devil  ?  At  any  rate  she  looked 
surprisingly  handsome,  and  that  at  least  was  as 
it  should  be.  A  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  went 
over  him,  and  holding  out  both  hands  to  her,  he 
cried : 

"  Mary  Anne,  come  here  !  You  're  a  trump  ! 
I  'm  proud  of  you  !  "  He  held  her  hands  for  a 
moment  and  gazed  up  at  her  from  his  big  easy 
chair  with  a  look  wherein  approbation  still  con- 
tended with  amazement,  and  then  he  said  :  * '  See 
that  you  stick  it  out,  my  girl !  see  that  you  stick 
it  out!" 

For  the  moment  Tom's  misdemeanors  were  for- 
gotten, and  somehow  they  never  assumed  the  same 
gigantic  proportions  in  the  family  councils  again. 
In  his  joy  at  having  his  daughter's  virtues  miti- 
gated, James  Spencer  could  afford  to  be  indulgent 
to  the  sins  of  his  son. 

When,  that  same  evening,  a  caller  was  an- 
nounced, namely,  Dr.  Charles  Winship,  Mary 
Anne,  with  a  queer  little  laugh,  said  to  her  younger 
sister  :  "  Edith,  I  think  you  'd  better  play  back- 
gammon with  Father  this  evening.  I  want  to 
see  Dr.  Winship  myself." 


Mary  Anne.  273 

Then  James  Spencer  openly  gloried  in  the  situ- 
ation. 

"  Well,  Edith,"  he  said,  with  a  comical  shrug 
of  his  broad  shoulders,  as  he  settled  himself  for 
his  game  ;  "  Mary  Anne  's  carrying  things  with 
a  high  hand.  You  and  I  may  as  well  submit." 


XII. 

WELL  MATCHED. 

PEOPLE  often  said  of  Mr.  Richard  Spencer 
and  his  youngest  son,  Dick,  that  they 
were  ' '  well  matched. "  It  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  comparison  was  not  altogether 
flattering  to  either  of  them,  since  it  was  called 
forth  less  by  the  rather  inconspicuous  virtues 
which  they  had  in  common,  than  by  their  more 
striking  characteristics  of  an  irascible  temper  and 
considerable  stubbornness. 

Yet  there  was  something  in  what  wise  Old 
Lady  Pratt,  Mr.  Spencer's  grandmother,  had  said 
when  young  Mrs.  Spencer  confided  to  her  her 
anxieties  early  in  her  son  Dick's  career. 

"  Lizzie,"  Grandma  said,  "  do  you  recollect  our 
old  Topsy,  that  was  always  a-layin'  in  that  stuffed 
cheer  when  you  and  Richard  used  to  drop  in  so 
unconscious-like  of  a  Saturday  evening,  and  be 
all  struck  of  a  heap  to  see  each  other?  Betsy, 
she  'd  never  believe  you  was  a-courtin'.  Old 
maids  are  most  gen' rally  kind  o'  hard  to  con- 
vince. But  my  spectacles  are  pretty  sharp  ones. ' ' 

To  such  sallies  Lizzie  never  failed  to  respond 

274 


Well  Matched.  275 

with  a  becoming  blush.  She  was  a  woman  who 
did  not  outgrow  her  feelings. 

' '  Well, ' '  Grandma  went  on,  ' '  Topsy  was  about 
as  fierce  a  cat  as  ever  lived.  I  declare  for  't,  I  do 
believe  the  critter  'd  rather  fight  than  eat  any 
day.  But  there  was  one  cat  he  was  friends  with, 
and  that  was  Miss  Gibbs'  s  Jericho.  Jericho  he  was 
a  master-hand  at  fightin'  too,  and  it  's  more  'n 
likely  that  them  two  tabbies  had  had  one  good 
pitched  battle  to  begin  with.  But  whether  or  no, 
there  'peared  to  be  a  kind  o'  bond  o'  union  be- 
twixt 'em.  They  'd  sit  nose  to  nose  on  that 
board  fence  sunnin'  themselves  by  the  hour. 
Sometimes  they  'd  blink  at  each  other  and  wave 
their  tails  about  kind  o'  gentle  an'  innocent. 
Then  agin'  they  'd  go  off  to  sleep  jest  as  confid- 
in'  's  a  pair  of  turtle-doves.  Now  you  mark  my 
words,  lizzie  ;  it  '11  be  jest  so  with  Dick  and  his 
father.  They  're  too  well  matched  to  fight  often. 
They  may  have  it  out  once  or  twice  before  they 
come  to  reason,  and  I  don  't  say  'tain't  goin'  to 
be  pretty  lively  for  you.  But  there  '11  never  be 
any  small  naggin'  and  domineerin'  betwixt  'em, 
and  when  once  they  're  settled  down  friends,  it  '11 
take  a  good  deal  to  set  'em  onto  each  other." 

Old  Lady  Pratt  was  right  about  this  as  she 
was  about  most  things,  and  before  she  went  to 
her  rest  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her 
grandson  and  his  young  epitome  living  as  com- 
fortably together  as  Topsy  and  Jericho  in  the  sun. 

As  Dick  grew  up  it  was  really  delightful  to  see 


2  76  Pratt  Portraits. 

what  good  friends  the  two  were.  Mrs.  Spencer 
could  forgive  her  husband  for  falling  into  an  oc- 
casional rage  with  the  other  children,  because  he 
seldom  molested  her  ' '  fire-brand  ' '  Dick  ;  and  as 
for  Dick  he  might  ' '  blow  out ' '  at  her  with  im- 
punity, so  long  as  he  did  not  rouse  the  lion  which 
slumbered  in  the  bosom  of  her  chosen  lord.  She 
would  often  watch  them  as  they  strolled  down 
the  garden  path  together,  thinking  the  while  of 
Topsy  and  Jericho  and  of  her  early  alarms,  and 
she  would  say  to  herself  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
content,  ' '  It  has  really  been  a  great  deliverance. ' ' 

A  sensible  woman  was  Mrs.  Richard  Spencer, 
and  her  husband  only  hoped  that  his  sons  might 
have  his  luck  when  their  courting  days  came 
round. 

The  courting  days  were  nearer  at  hand  than 
Mr.  Richard  Spencer  suspected.  Perhaps  he  had 
forgotten  that  he  began  his  own  courting  at  the 
early  age  of  twenty.  Such  a  lapse  of  memory 
could  alone  account  for  his  not  attaching  more 
significance  than  he  did  to  a  little  incident  which 
occurred  one  pleasant  June  morning  when  Dick 
was  barely  turned  twenty-one.  The  family  were 
assembled  at  the  breakfast-table,  grace  had  been 
said,  and  as  Mr.  Spencer  lifted  his  eyes  he  beheld 
an  unusual  sight.  The  dining-room  windows 
looked  out  upon  the  gravel  space  in  front  of  the 
barn.  Although  it  was  at  some  distance  from  the 
house,  the  view  was  unobstructed,  and  a  top- 
buggy  which  had  been  backed  out  from  the  car- 


Well  Matched.  277 

riage-house  was  plainly  visible.  This  was  a  sight 
to  which  Mr.  Spencer  was  well  accustomed,  and 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  pailfuls  of  water 
which  were  being  energetically  flung  upon  the 
four  wheels  of  the  vehicle.  It  was  on  this  spot 
and  at  this  hour  that  the  carriages  were  frequently 
washed. 

But  Mr.  Spencer's  eyesight  was  good,  and  he 
saw,  not  only  the  buggy  top  glistening  in  the 
brilliant  morning  sunshine,  and  the  figure  of  his 
trusted  servant  vigorously  swashing  the  wheels, 
but  in  the  shadow  of  the  buggy  top  an  object 
suspended,  which  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to 
a  woman's  bonnet.  It  was  of  white  straw  with 
bright  pink  roses  upon  it,  and  as  it  hung  from  the 
hook  provided  for  the  reins,  it  was  lightly  wafted 
to  and  fro  by  a  gentle  morning  breeze.  It  gave 
Mr.  Spencer  rather  a  singular  feeling,  for  the 
buggy  was  Dick's,  and  he  looked  often  from  the 
unique  picture  before  his  eyes  to  the  unconscious 
face  of  his  son.  He  was  quite  determined,  how- 
ever, not  to  make  any  allusion  to  the  matter,  and 
was  rather  taken  aback  when  he  found  himself 
saying,  as  he  passed  his  cup  for  more  coffee,  ' '  Did 
you  have  a  pleasant  drive  yesterday,  Dick  ?  " 

* '  Yes,  sir, ' '  said  Dick,  ' '  very  pleasant. ' ' 

' '  Where  did  you  go  ?  " 

* '  I  went  round  by  Darbon  Centre.  There  are 
lots  of  wild  roses  out, ' '  he  added,  with  an  air  of 
dwelling  upon  the  point  of  chief  interest. 

"  H'm  !     Did  you  go  alone  ?  " 


2  78  Pratt  Portraits. 

"No;  I  took  a  friend." 

Dick's  manner  as  he  said  this  was  so  need- 
lessly innocent  that  his  father's  wise  resolution 
vanished,  and  before  he  could  stop  himself,  he 
had  said : 

"  H'm  !     He  left  his  bonnet  behind  him." 

Dick  followed  the  direction  of  his  father's  eyes, 
and  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  flushed  crim- 
son. There  was  a  shout  from  John  and  a  titter 
from  the  girls,  and  Dick,  pushing  back  his  chair, 
rushed  from  the  table,  and  seizing  his  hat,  dashed 
out  to  the  barn.  There  they  could  see  him  be- 
rating the  indiscreet  groom,  who  vainly  tried  to 
conceal  his  enjoyment  of  the  situation. 

Poor  Dick  !  It  was  no  laughing  matter  to  him. 
He  sternly  ordered  the  man  to  "let  that  buggy 
alone  and  harness  Golddust."  He  backed  the 
horse  into  the  shafts  himself,  made  fast  the  straps, 
and  in  five  minutes  after  his  hasty  exit,  his 
family  beheld  him  driving  out  of  the  yard,  the 
wheels  of  the  buggy  still  dripping  wet,  and  the 
bonnet  waving  like  a  banner  from  the  top.  A 
more  defiant  and  indignant  heart  never  beat 
under  any  flag. 

Once  fairly  out  of  sight  of  the  dining-room 
windows,  Dick  took  the  bonnet  from  its  un- 
worthy position  and  laid  it  reverently  upon  the 
seat  beside  him,  first  spreading  his  snowy  pocket- 
handkerchief  beneath  it.  Then  he  covered  it 
over  with  the  light  lap-robe. 

He  was  a  curious  study  at  that  moment,  in  the 


Well  Matched.  2  79 

mingled  fury  and  tenderness  of  his  aspect.  With 
one  hand  he  clinched  the  reins,  as  though  seek- 
ing to  control  a  wild  beast,  as  indeed  he  was, 
though  the  wild  beast's  name  was  not  Golddust ; 
while  the  other  hand  rested  protectingly  on  the 
fragile  object  beside  him.  He  lifted  the  cover 
once  or  twice  and  looked  at  the  fanciful  combina- 
tion of  straw,  ribbons,  and  muslin  flowers.  It 
seemed  to  his  untutored  mind  a  thing  of  perfect 
beauty,  and  its  nearness  was  very  soothing  to  his 
wounded  sensibilities.  He  reflected  that  the 
Mortons  were  not  as  early  risers  as  his  own  fam- 
ily, and  not  wishing  to  arrive  on  his  somewhat 
surprising  errand  at  Julie's  house  until  her  peo- 
ple were  likely  to  be  dispersed,  he  turned  the 
obedient  Golddust  toward  the  open  country. 
Poor  Golddust  was  much  perplexed  and  hurt  by 
the  grim  clutch  of  his  master's  hand  upon  the 
reins.  He  had  a  tender  mouth  and  a  tender  con- 
science, and  he  knew  he  deserved  better  treat- 
ment. But  he  trotted  lightly  along  the  smooth 
road,  and  when,  after  a  mile  or  two,  the  inconsid- 
erate grip  was  relaxed,  he  turned  his  head  a  little 
and  laid  back  one  ear  in  grateful  and  forgiving 
recognition  of  relief. 

At  first  Dick's  reflections  were  very  bitter.  He 
felt  himself  betrayed  and  wronged  in  his  tender- 
est  feelings.  Yet  those  feelings  of  tenderness 
were  so  much  stronger  than  his  indignation  about 
them  could  be  that  he  gradually  gave  himself  up 
to  them. 


280  Pratt  Portraits. 

It  had  been  his  first  drive  with  Julie,  and  after 
all  nothing  could  rob  him  of  it  now.  The  lovely 
June  weather,  the  long,  lingering  twilight,  and 
the  young  hearts  happy  in  an  unexpressed  com- 
munion, all  had  been  in  tune,  while  Golddust, 
with  his  shining  sorrel  coat,  had  seemed  like  a 
good  fairy,  graciously  condescending  to  serve 
them. 

It  was  at  this  point  in  Dick's  meditations  that 
Golddust  felt  the  reins  relaxed. 

The  bonnets  of  that  day  were  heavy,  oppressive 
structures,  and  Julie  had  felt  the  weight  and  irk- 
someness  of  hers.  So  she  doffed  the  awkward 
thing  as  they  were  driving  home  through  the 
open  country,  and  laid  it  in  the  hood  of  the 
buggy,  where  Dick  made  it  fast  to  the  hook. 
When  the  bonnet  was  gone  a  hundred  little 
sunny  curls  were  released,  and  the  evening  zeph- 
yrs played  among  them  in  a  manner  that  en- 
chanted Dick. 

As  they  drove  into  the  town  half  an  hour  later 
the  stars  were  coming  out,  and  the  hush  of  a 
summer  evening  was  in  the  shadowy  streets. 
The  two  young  people  were  silent  and  preoccu- 
pied, and  when  they  drew  up  before  Mr.  Morton's 
gate,  Julie  gave  a  little  regretful  sigh,  at  which  a 
sudden  throb  of  courage  inspired  Dick. 

He  handed  her  from  the  buggy  without  speak- 
ing, but  just  as  she  turned  to  leave  him  he  seized 
her  hand  and  cried,  in  a  voice  more  eloquent  than 
the  words : 


Well  Matched.  281 

"  O  Julie  !  I  should  like  to  drive  with  you 
forever  !  " 

Was  it  any  wonder  that  they  forgot  the  bonnet  ? 
That  Julie  ran  up  to  her  little  room,  her  heart 
beating  so  hard  that  she  could  hardly  breathe  ? 
That  Dick's  strong  hand  trembled  as  he  drove 
Golddust  home  and  "  put  him  up  "  ? 

In  the  presence  of  such  memories  even  the 
Spencer  temper  could  not  long  rage,  and  by  the 
time  he  reached  the  spot  where  they  had  discov- 
ered the  wild  roses,  Dick's  mind  was  sufficiently 
disengaged  to  receive  a  happy  suggestion.  He 
would  fill  the  bonnet  with  roses  ! 

In  an  instant  he  was  out  of  the  buggy,  search- 
ing for  the  fairest  buds  and  blossoms,  with  a  heart 
as  light  as  though  it  had  never  stormed.  He 
smiled  gleefully  as  he  laid  the  flowers  in  their 
singular  basket.  It  was  ' '  made  to  hold  flowers, ' ' 
he  said  to  himself,  thinking,  with  a  gleam  of 
fancy,  of  the  flower-like  face  he  had  often  seen 
within  it.  Yes,  the  boy  was  too  happy  to  be 
angry  long. 

Dick' s  courtship  ought  to  have  been  a  prosperous 
one,  for  he  and  Julie  had  loved  one  another  long 
before  they  were  conscious  of  it.  Furthermore, 
she  was  the  very  maiden  whom  his  parents  would 
have  had  him  choose  ;  and  even  worldly  circum- 
stance, so  prone  to  frown  upon  lovers,  was  all  in 
their  favor. 

But  there  was  an  obstacle  upon  this  flowery 
path  which  Dick  scorned  to  evade — an  obstacle 


282  Pratt  Portraits. 

which  he  had  determined  to  remove,  by  brute 
force,  if  need  be,  before  he  would  take  another 
step.  The  boy  was  totally  dependent  upon  his 
father,  and  he  was  resolved  never  to  ask  Julie  to 
be  his  wife  until  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  earn  a 
living. 

Mr.  Spencer  was  the  rich  man  of  the  pretty 
suburban  town  where  he  lived.  He  had  made 
money  in  the  iron  business  when  that  branch  of 
commerce  was  most  flourishing,  and  had  retired 
from  active  life  before  the  precipitous  decline  in 
the  iron  interest  which  had  wrecked  so  many  for- 
tunes. 

He  was  now  comfortably  occupied  with  the 
care  of  various  trust  properties.  He  was  a  bank 
director  and  president  of  the  local  horse-railway, 
and  he  held  other  offices  of  dignity  and  responsi- 
bility which  were  gratifying  to  his  pride. 

He  was  not  himself  a  college-bred  man,  yet  he 
had  a  comfortable  sense  of  equality  in  his  inter- 
course with  those  of  his  fellow-townsmen  who 
had  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  a  fleeting  familiarity 
with  the  dead  languages,  and  he  had  left  his  sons 
free  to  accept  or  reject  such  advantages,  as  they 
should  prefer. 

Ben,  the  eldest,  had  graduated  with  honors, 
and  "  gone  in  "  for  law ;  John  was  established  in 
business  in  the  city,  whither  he  repaired  daily  in 
the  pursuit  of  fortune  ;  while  Dick,  after  a  year's 
trial  at  college,  had  fallen  into  an  impatience  of 
books,  and  announced  himself  ready  for  practical 
life. 


Well  Matched.  283 

Now  despite  the  shrewdness  and  capacity  which 
had  made  a  successful  man  of  Mr.  Richard  Spen- 
cer, there  was  an  unaccountable  streak  of  dila- 
toriness  in  him.  He  acquiesced  in  Dick's  deci- 
sion with  secret  satisfaction.  He  had  always  had 
a  peculiar  pride  in  the  boy's  resemblance  to  him- 
self, and  he  was  glad  to  find  that  he  was  no  book- 
worm. Yet  he  could  not  seem  to  rouse  himself, 
as  he  ought  to  have  done,  to  find  a  proper  busi- 
ness opening  for  the  lad.  For  nearly  a  year  Dick 
had  been  fretting  under  the  delay,  for  he  was  an 
ambitious  young  fellow,  and  had  no  mind  to 
'  *  fool  away  his  best  years, "  as  he  expressed  it. 
Now,  at  last,  things  had  come  to  a  crisis,  and 
spurred  on  by  the  hope  of  Julie's  love,  he  was 
ready  to  demand  a  career  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet. 

Armed,  then,  with  all  the  righteousness  of  his 
cause,  Dick  went  to  the  city,  a  few  days  after  his 
memorable  drive,  and  confronted  his  father  in  his 
business  office.  He  found  him  engaged  in  the 
perusal  of  a  documentary-looking  paper,  from 
which  he  only  glanced  up  as  his  son  entered  to 
say : 

"  Hullo,  Dick  !  What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

' '  I  will  wait  until  you  are  at  leisure,  sir, ' '  said 
Dick.  "  I  've  come  to  talk  business." 

"  Oh,  ho  !  "  said  his  father,  amused  by  the  im- 
portance of  the  boy's  tone.  "  It 's  business  is  it  ? 
All  right !  Business  before  pleasure,"  and  he 
folded  up  an  elaborate  scheme  for  the  extension 
of  one  of  the  principal  railroads  in  the  country  at 


284  Pratt  Portraits. 

the  cost  of  several  millions  of  dollars,  and  gravely 
waited  for  Dick  to  proceed.  Dick,  in  his  self- 
absorption,  quite  missed  the  point  of  the  little 
joke. 

"Father,"  he  said,  with  much  emphasis, 
"I  Ve  come  to  have  a  serious  talk  about  my 
future.  I  've  come  to  ask  you,  once  for  all,  to 
give  me  a  start  in  life." 

Mr.  Spencer  looked  annoyed.  "  My  dear 
Dick,"  he  said,  "this  is  n't  the  place  to  discuss 
family  matters.  And  besides,"  he  added,  rather 
lamely,  "  you  know  very  well  that  I  am  on  the 
look-out  for  you.  I  shall  be  as  pleased  as  you 
vrhen  anything  turns  up. " 

"Things  don't  turn  up  of  themselves,"  Dick 
answered,  stubbornly  ;  "  and  if  you  don't  mean 
to  lend  a  hand,  I  intend  to  look  out  for  myself." 

Mr.  Spencer  felt  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  It 
was  very  irritating  to  have  the  ' '  young  rascal ' ' 
take  such  a  tone  with  him.  Yet,  as  a  sort  of  sop 
to  conscience,  he  determined  to  be  magnanimous. 
So  he  said,  not  too  crossly  : 

"I  don't  see  what  you  're  in  such  a  hurry 
about,  Dick.  Yoa  've  got  plenty  of  time  before 
you.  You  can' t  force  these  things.  Come  now, ' ' 
he  added,  persuasively,  "why  can't  you  make 
up  your  mind  to  go  abroad  with  the  Wheelers  as 
they  want  you  to,  and  see  a  little  of  the  world 
before  you  buckle  down  to  hard  work  ?  " 

Clearly  Mr.  Richard  Spencer  had  forgotten 
about  that  bonnet. 


Well  Matched.  285 

But  Dick  was  not  to  be  bought  off,  and  he  an- 
swered :  "  Because  I  would  n't  give  a  fig  to  go 
abroad.  I  'm  tired  to  death  of  shilly-shallying. 
I  say,  Father,"  he  added,  beseechingly,  "  there  's 
nothing  I  would  n't  do.  I'd  take  any  kind  of  a 
clerkship.  I  'd  sell  goods  behind  a  counter.  I  'd 
go  into  a  railroad  office.  Can't  you  get  me  a 
chance  at  the  D.  &  I.  P.  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Dick  !  It 's  out  of  the  question." 

"But  why?" 

"Why?  Good  gracious,  Dick,  can't  you  see 
through  a  ladder?  A  salary  is  n't  what  you  're 
after.  You  don't  need  the  money.  And  besides, 
you  can't  pick  up  a  salaried  place  at  every  street 
corner." 

' '  /  can' t.     But  you  could,  Father. ' ' 

This  eagerness  was  a  little  tiresome,  and  Mr. 
Spencer  began  to  look  bored.  He  unrolled  the 
paper  which  had  been  subordinated  to  "busi- 
ness," and  seemed  to  expect  his  visitor  to  go.  So 
Dick  got  up. 

"Well,  I  see  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me,"  he 
said.  There  was  no  answer,  and  a  dangerous 
look  came  into  the  boy's  eyes  as  he  added :  "I 
give  you  fair  warning,  sir,  that  as  you  won't  help 
me,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  help  myself. ' ' 

"That  's  all  right,  Dick.  Go  ahead,"  his 
father  answered,  glad  to  see  the  last  of  him  on  any 
terms,  and  as  Dick  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
not  too  gently,  Mr.  Spencer  returned  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  documentary  paper.  For  some 


286  Pratt  Portraits. 

reason  he  found  it  less  interesting  than  before. 
Dick  was  gone,  but  the  eager,  frustrated  look  in 
the  lad's  eyes  haunted  him. 

"  I  only  hope  the  young  rascal  won't  be  play- 
ing me  any  trick,"  he  said  to  himself.  "First 
thing  we  know,  he  '11  be  clearing  out  altogether, 
and  we  shall  hear  of  him  digging  gold  among  the 
roughs  in  California.  Confound  these  young- 
sters !  They  all  think  Rome  was  built  in  a  day. ' ' 

Between  his  disapproving  conscience  and  his 
fears  of  some  sort  of  a  catastrophe,  Mr.  Spencer 
was  far  from  easy  in  his  mind,  and  he  determined 
to  bestir  himself  in  the  matter  before  he  was  a 
week  older. 

But  Dick  was  yet  more  prompt  in  action,  and 
before  either  of  them  was  a  week  older  he  had 
taken  measures  which  were  destined  to  disturb 
his  father's  equanimity  pretty  seriously. 

When  Dick  left  his  father's  office,  it  was  early 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  out-going  horse-cars 
were  but  sparsely  occupied.  He  stepped  upon 
the  rear  platform  of  one,  and  lighted  a  cigar  for 
solace  and  inspiration.  He  was  angry  and  dis- 
couraged. He  felt  thoroughly  defeated.  Yet 
there  was  a  certain  satisfaction  in  having  declared 
open  war,  and  being  ready  to  take  the  world  on 
its  own  terms.  In  the  course  of  his  recent  boy- 
hood, Dick  had  scraped  acquaintance  with  most 
of  the  employes  on  this  old-established  road,  and 
he  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  conductor. 
Preoccupied  as  he  was  with  the  great  subject  of 


Well  Matched.  287 

bread-winning,  he  got  his  companion  to  talk  of 
his  work  and  of  his  pay,  and  the  rich  man's  son 
felt  honestly  envious  of  the  independent  possessor 
of  such  work  and  such  wages. 

4 'Do  you  know,  Bill,  you  're  a  mighty  lucky 
fellow,"  he  said.  "I'm  such  a  beggar,  I  can't 
get  a  chance  to  earn  a  nickel." 

The  conductor  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise. 
Then  he  said,  jocosely  :  ' '  You  might  come  on  the 
road.  I  'm  going  to  try  and  get  transferred  onto 
the  new  I^eanton  branch.  It  goes  nearer  my 
folks.  I  reckon  I  could  get  you  my  place. ' '  And 
the  honest  fellow  grinned  with  pleasure  in  his 
own  humor. 

"By  Jove!"  Dick  cried:  "I  guess  we  've 
struck  it  this  time  !  If  that  would  n't  fetch  the 
governor,  nothing  would." 

The  old  woman  with  the  bandbox  who  came 
out  of  the  car  just  then,  and  the  young  woman 
reading  a  library  book  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
seat,  little  guessed  that  a  dark  conspiracy  was 
going  on  before  their  very  eyes.  But  when  Dick 
swung  off  the  step,  he  called  out :  "  I  '11  see  you 
to-morrow,  Bill,"  and  walked  toward  Julie's 
house  with  the  tread  of  a  conquering  hero. 

The  conspiracy  ripened  fast ;  so  fast  that  in  less 
than  a  fortnight  after  that  momentous  conversa- 
tion on  the  rear  platform  Dick  emerged  from  the 
company's  office  an  accepted  candidate  for  Bill 
Geddings'  s  place.  The  superintendent  had  ' '  liked 
his  looks, ' '  had  pronounced  himself  satisfied  with 


288  Pratt  Portraits. 

Bill's  voucher,  and  had  promptly  enrolled  the 
singularly  familiar  name  of  ' '  Richard  Spencer  ' ' 
on  the  list  of  conductors. 

It  was  with  mixed  feelings  that  the  new  con- 
ductor walked  from  the  office.  He  had  applied 
for  the  position  in  a  reckless  mood,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  himself  rather  elated  with  his  suc- 
cess. Quite  apart  from  his  frankly  acknowledged 
hope  of  coercing  his  father,  it  was  really  very 
gratifying  to  know  that  an  impartial  judge  seemed 
to  consider  him  "  worth  his  salt." 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was  obliged  to  own  that 
the  immediate  consequences  of  this  startling  pro- 
ceeding of  his  might  be  disagreeable,  and  it  was 
not  without  misgivings  that  he  contemplated 
breaking  the  news  to  his  father. 

"  It  will  be  an  all-round  botheration  for  the  dear 
old  chap, ' '  he  said  to  himself  with  some  compunc- 
tion ;  "  I  hope  I  can  let  him  down  easy." 

His  plan  was  to  appear  before  the  ' '  dear  old 
chap  "  after  his  first  day's  service,  and  state  his 
case  with  as  much  moderation  as  he  could  com- 
mand. His  own  position  was  clear.  He  proposed 
to  work  in  the  company's  service  until  something 
better  turned  up,  and  he  had  sufficient  confidence 
in  his  own  often  tested  obstinacy  to  know  that 
nothing  was  likely  to  shake  his  determination. 
Whether  the  effect  on  the  "dear  old  chap's" 
mind  would  be  to  hasten  or  to  retard  the  consum- 
mation of  his  hopes  was  another  question. 
Julie,  at  least,  was  all  encouragement.  She 


Well  Matched.  289 

considered  his  new  venture  a  stroke  of  genius. 
She  longed  to  see  Dick  in  his  brass  buttons  hand- 
ling the  bell-punch  with  all  the  style  he  was  sure 
to  put  into  anything  he  did.  She  secretly  be- 
lieved that  he  could  have  turned  a  hand-organ 
with  distinction  and  success. 

Julie  did  not  confess  all  this  to  Dick,  but  her 
confidence  was  very  cheering ;  and  when  he 
entered  upon  his  new  duties  one  morning  at  six 
o'clock,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  wearing  her 
colors. 

Now  Mr.  Richard  Spencer  was  in  the  habit  of 
driving  to  town  every  day  in  his  own  buggy  ;  but 
it  so  chanced  that  on  this  particular  morning  he 
patronized  the  horse-car.  That  in  itself  was  a 
coincidence,  but  it  would  seem  as  though  some 
mischievous  kobold  must  have  guided  the  steps 
of  the  unsuspecting  old  gentleman  to  cause  him 
to  board  his  son's  car.  However  that  may  be, 
this  strange  and  untoward  thing  did  happen. 

Dick  had  stated  the  night  before  that  he  should 
have  an  early  breakfast,  as  he  was  going  off  for 
the  day  with  another  fellow,  and  his  trusting 
family  had  enjoyed  their  morning  repast  un- 
troubled by  any  suspicion  that  that  "other 
fellow ' '  might  be  a  brawny  son  of  Krin  employed 
as  driver  on  the  horse-railroad. 

Mr.  Spencer's  conscience  meanwhile  had  been 
effectually  quieted,  and  his  passing  fears  of  a 
revolt  on  Dick's  part  were  consequently  allayed. 
Having  once  seriously  resolved  to  bestir  himself 

§9 


2go  Pratt  Portraits 

he  was  not  the  man  to  waste  time,  and  he  had  been, 
for  a  week  past,  in  correspondence  with  one  of  his 
friends,  a  manufacturer,  who  was  in  search  of  a 
junior  partner  with  a  fair  capital,  and  sufficient 
pluck  and  perseverance  to  go  through  with  the 
necessary  apprenticeship  in  the  business.  The 
chance  was  exactly  suited  to  Dick's  capacity,  and, 
reflecting  upon  the  pleasant  surprise  he  had  in 
store  for  the  lad,  Mr.  Spencer  walked  to  the 
horse-car  with  a  ligM  step  and  a  light  heart.  As 
he  reached  the  cormr  of  the  street  he  was  grati- 
fied to  see  a  car  just  nt  hand,  and  he  stepped  upon 
the  platform  before  it  had  come  to  a  full  stop,  with 
an  ease  and  agility  which  a  younger  man,  and 
one  of  lighter  weight,  might  have  envied. 

A  bank  director  and  railway  magnate  does  not 
often  vouchsafe  a  glance  at  a  street-car  conductor, 
and  even  the  tremendous  noise  with  which  Dick 
was  aware  that  his  heart  was  thumping  among 
his  ribs  failed  to  attract  the  passenger's  attention 
as  he  brushed  past  the  conductor  and  entered 
the  car. 

Dick  promptly  summoned  his  wits  and  gave 
the  signal  to  start ;  but  as  he  stood  looking 
through  the  glass  door  at  the  silk  hat,  just  visible 
over  the  morning  paper  behind  which  his  father 
was  hidden,  he  devoutly  hoped  that  he  might  es- 
cape recognition. 

The  car  gradually  filled  up,  and  the  time 
arrived  for  taking  the  fares.  Dick  grasped  his 
bell-punch  and  passed  from  one  to  the  other  of 


Well  Matched.  2  9 1 

the  passengers,  collecting  fares  and  manfully 
snapping  the  spring  upon  each  ticket.  He 
glanced  furtively  at  that  silk  hat,  and  wondered 
that  its  wearer  did  not  look  up  startled  by  the 
shrill  tone  of  the  bell,  which  sounded  to  his  own 
ears  like  the  crack  of  doom.  But  no  one,  not 
even  the  pale,  nervous-looking  women  sprinkled 
along  the  seats,  seemed  to  receive  the  slightest 
shock  from  the  ' '  infernal  racket ' '  the  thing 
made.  At  last  Dick  arrived  in  front  of  the  silk 
hat  and  the  newspaper,  and  a  cowardly  wish 
possessed  him  to  pass  them  by,  since  their  owner 
seemed  oblivious  to  the  situation.  But  it  is  one 
thing  to  have  cowardly  wishes  and  quite  another 
thing  to  be  a  coward,  and  Dick  promptly  said,  as 
he  was  bound  to  do,  '  *  Fares,  please. ' ' 

Mr.  Richard  Spencer  mechanically  put  his 
thumb  and  forefinger  into  his  vest  pocket,  glanc- 
ing up  as  he  did  so  at  the  conductor  with  the 
familiar  voice.  For  a  moment  the  passenger 
seemed  turned  to  stone,  while  he  gazed  into  the 
eyes  beneath  the  conductor's  cap,  his  newspaper 
slipping  from  his  grasp,  his  fingers  arrested  in 
the  act  of  pulling  out  a  ticket. 

Then  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  and  he  said 
sternly,  though  in  an  undertone,  ' '  Quit  your 
tomfoolery,  Dick,  and  leave  the  conductor's 
business  alone." 

"  I  can't  very  well  do  that,  sir,  as  I  'm  the  con- 
ductor," Dick  answered,  respectfully,  while  his 
heart  hammered  his  ribs.  His  father  looked  at 


292  Pratt  Portraits. 

him,  at  his  cap  and  his  badge,  at  his  bell-punch. 
Here,  then,  was  the  trick  he  had  feared,  the  defi- 
ance he  had  dreaded.  Mr.  Richard  Spencer  was 
no  aristocrat,  but  this  was  carrying  a  joke  a  little 
too  far. 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight,"  he  growled,  between 
his  set  teeth.  His  eyes  looked  ominous. 

"When  you  've  paid  your  fare,  sir." 

"  I  don't  propose  to  pay  my  fare." 

Dick's  blood  tingled. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  said,  steadily,  "  but  you  '11 
have  to." 

Thus  far  the  talk  had  been  low,  and  not  every 
one  could  hear  what  was  said.  But  there  was  no 
one  in  the  car  who  did  not  perceive  that  some- 
thing unusual  was  going  forward. 

A  man  behind  him  pulled  the  conductor's  coat, 
and  said,  in  a  friendly  growl,  *  *  Go  it  easy,  young 
chap  ;  that 's  the  president  of  the  road." 

"  I  know  it,"  Dick  said,  over  his  shoulder,  in 
grateful  recognition  of  a  kind  turn.  But  he  stood 
like  a  rock  before  his  contumacious  passenger. 

Mr.  Spencer  had  put  the  paper  up  before  his 
face,  but  the  lines  went  scalloping  across  the 
page,  and  in  his  consuming  anger  he  took  a  grim 
pleasure  in  knowing  that  the  object  of  it  stood 
there  defying  him.  It  was  fuel  to  the  fire,  and 
when  once  Mr.  Richard  Spencer's  passion  was 
roused  he  gave  himself  over  to  it  with  a  fierce 
satisfaction. 

Outwardly  Dick  had  kept  his  self-control.     He 


Well  Matched.  293 

had  a  pride  in  his  new  calling  and  a  determina- 
tion to  do  his  duty  with  propriety  and  temperate- 
ness.  But  there  was  a  tempest  within  him  which 
was  a  match  for  the  passion  of  the  elder  man. 
He  spoke  very  quietly. 

'  *  My  instructions,  sir,  are  to  carry  no  passenger 
over  this  road  without  the  payment  of  a  fare.  I 
hope  you  will  not  force  me  to  extreme  measures." 

At  this  crisis  there  was  a  touch  on  the  conduc- 
tor's shoulder,  and  a  ticket  was  thrust  before 
him.  ' '  Here,  take  that, ' '  a  voice  whispered, 
"  and  don't  rile  the  old  chap  any  more." 

" Thanks,"  said  Dick,  as  he  punched  the 
ticket  and  dropped  it  into  his  pocket.  To  his 
ears  the  bell  had  a  triumphant  clang. 

The  old  man  had  not  seen  the  ticket.  "You 
give  it  up,  do  you  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  sneer,  as 
Dick  moved  on  to  the  next  passenger. 

Dick's  eyes  flashed. 

' '  Your  fare  has  been  paid,  sir,  by  one  of  the 
other  gentlemen. ' ' 

Then  Mr.  Spencer,  rose,  towering  in  his  wrath, 
and  pulled  the  strap  with  a  vehemence  that  en- 
dangered the  stout  leather. 

'  *  The  other  gentleman  is  a  meddlesome  idiot, 
and  you — you — -you  are  a  blundering  impostor  !  ' ' 
And  with  this  double  anathema,  the  president  of 
the  Dunbridge  Horse  Railway  stepped  off  the  car, 
and  stood  in  the  dust  of  the  street,  cooling  his 
cheeks,  but  not  the  inward  fires,  in  the  pleasant 
breeze  that  blew  about  him. 


294  Pratt  Portraits* 

Poor  Dick  !  The  sight  of  his  father  standing 
there,  abandoned  and  exposed,  would  have  been 
too  much  for  him,  had  not  the  old  man's  last 
words — "  blundering  impostor" — stung  him  to 
renewed  resentment. 

As  he  turned  to  continue  his  duties,  a  general 
murmur  of  conversation  arose.  He  caught 
snatches  which  made  him  miserably  uncomforta- 
ble. 

*  *  What  ailed  the  old  crank  anyhow  ?  ' '  said 
one  voice. 

"  I  reckon  he  'd  been  out  on  a  bat,"  another 
chuckled. 

"The  young  feller  stood  to  his  guns  like  a 
man, ' '  declared  a  third. 

At  last  Dick  escaped  onto  the  rear  platform, 
where  a  shrewd-faced  Yankee  was  leaning 
against  the  brake,  contemplatively  chewing  to- 
bacco. 

As  Dick  appeared,  he  looked  up  inquiringly, 
and  pointing  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder, 
drawled  : 

"  He  war  n't  tipsy  naow,  was  he  ?  " 

Dick  flared  up.  "  Tipsy  !  If  I  was  off  duty, 
I  'd  fight  the  whole  car-load  of  idiots.  There  's 
not  one  of  them  that 's  fit  to  black  that  man's 
boots." 

The  Yankee  gave  the  tobacco  quid  a  twist  with 
his  tongue,  and  seemed  to  be  making  a  study  of 
Dick's  heated  countenance. 

"Waal,  I  snum,"  he  said,  drawling  more  than 


Well  Matched.  295 

ever.  "  You  're  nigh  about  as  peppery  as  the  old 
one." 

Then,  with  a  slow  dawning  of  intelligence,  he 
added,  "  I  reckon  you  two  have  met  before" 

It  had  been  a  disastrous  beginning  to  the  day, 
yet  Dick  was  surprised  to  find  how  soon  the  pain- 
ful impression  wore  off.  There  was  an  unreality 
about  the  whole  situation  which  made  it  seem  like 
a  dream  or  a  bit  of  fiction.  He  could  not 
thoroughly  believe  in  his  own  part  in  it,  and  yet 
there  was  just  a  sufficient  sense  of  identity  to  give 
zest  to  the  little  drama.  He  found  himself  in  a 
new  attitude  toward  the  great  public.  The 
absurd  inquiries,  which  must  become  so  tiresome 
to  an  old  hand,  had  for  him  the  charm  of  novelty. 
The  old  ladies,  with  their  unaccountable  agita- 
tion and  their  hesitating  steps,  called  out  all  his 
chivalry.  The  toddling  children  found  in  him  a 
ready  friend  and  helper,  as  they  vaguely  lifted 
their  chubby  feet  in  the  general  direction  of  the 
lower  step.  When  his  own  acquaintances  ap- 
peared from  time  to  time,  the  interest  became  still 
more  lively.  Indies  greeted  him  with  undis- 
guised astonishment,  while  the  men  joined  him 
on  the  platform,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  ' '  pump  ' ' 
him  vigorously.  Before  night  the  town  was  all 
ag°g  °n  the  subject.  Kvery  one  knew  that  Dick 
Spencer  was  conductor  on  the  horse-railroad,  and 
every  one  chuckled  over  the  situation,  and  won- 
dered how  the  * '  president ' '  liked  it. 

By  noon  Dick's  spirits  had  risen  so  high  that 


296  Pratt  Portraits. 

he    was    once    very   near    getting   himself  into 
trouble. 

It  happened  that  a  stout,  pompous  woman 
motioned  him  to  stop  the  car  at  a  street  corner 
just  as  he  had  his  hands  full  of  change,  and  he 
was  a  little  late  in  pulling  the  strap.  The  driver 
was  also  a  little  slow  with  the  brake,  and  the 
portly  passenger  gazed  with  kindling  indignation 
at  the  gradually  receding  vision  of  her  garden 
gate.  When  at  last  the  car  had  come  to  a  full 
stop,  she  arose  in  her  majesty  and  approached  the 
door.  Arrived  on  the  platform  she  turned  to 
Dick,  and  said  severely  : 

"  Conductor,  why  did  n't  you  stop  the  car  at 
my  corner  f ' ' 

This  was  too  much  for  Dick's  discretion.  With 
an  air  of  elaborate  apology,  he  said  :  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  madam  ;  I  did  n't  know  you  had  a 
corner. ' ' 

Then,  as  she  flashed  upon  him  a  malignant 
look,  he  added,  meekly,  "  I  will  be  more  careful 
another  time. ' ' 

The  good  woman's  wrath  was  tempered  with 
perplexity,  and  by  the  time  Dick  had  gallantly 
assisted  her  from  the  platform,  there  was  that  in 
her  countenance  which  told  him  that  he  was  for- 
given. The  danger  was  averted  for  that  time, 
but  the  incident  gave  Dick  an  entirely  new  feel- 
ing of  self-distrust,  and  he  resolved  to  cultivate 
the  virtue  of  stolidity. 

As  the  day  passed,    and   he    became   a  little 


Well  Matched.  297 

accustomed  to  the  amusing  masquerade,  Dick's 
mood  grew  more  serious.  Recollections  of  his 
father's  discomfiture  would  intrude  themselves 
upon  him.  He  could  not  pass  the  spot,  where  he 
had  last  seen  the  old  man  standing  in  the  dust, 
without  a  feeling  of  strong  compunction,  and  he 
fairly  hated  himself  when  he  thought  of  the  role 
which  had  been  so  unexpectedly  forced  upon  him. 
He  was  pondering  these  things  in  a  rather  dismal 
frame  of  mind  as  he  stood  on  the  rear  platform  of 
his  almost  empty  car,  early  in  the  evening  of  the 
same  day.  The  exhilaration  of  novelty  was  past, 
and  he  found  himself  brought  face  to  face  with 
certain  distasteful  facts. 

He  knew  his  father's  temper  (and  perhaps  his 
own)  too  well  to  hope  for  a  speedy  reconciliation, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that  the  prospect  of 
an  indefinite  term  of  service  on  the  horse-railroad 
was  not  altogether  pleasing  to  contemplate.  In 
vain  he  told  himself  that  it  was  independence,  and 
that  independence  was  all  he  had  desired.  The 
irrevocableness  of  the  situation  —  and  young 
people  are  ever  ready  with  the  word  ' '  irrevoc- 
able"— taught  him  that  what  he  had  taken  for 
independence  was  nothing  but  a  respectable 
servitude. 

It  was  still  broad  daylight.  He  stood  with  his 
back  planted  against  the  end  of  the  car,  and  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  gazing  gloomily  at  the  re- 
ceding city.  The  road  was  deserted ;  but  in  the 
distance  he  noticed  a  buggy  approaching,  as  it 


298  Pratt  Portraits. 

seemed  to  him,  rather  fast.  As  it  got  nearer,  he 
could  see  that  the  vehicle  rocked  from  side  to 
side.  Yes,  it  was  a  runaway,  and  a  wild  one  at 
that.  Dick  turned  a  quick  glance  up  the  road. 
There  were  no  teams  in  sight,  but,  a  few  rods 
ahead,  a  railroad  crossed  the  street,  and  he  could 
see  the  smoke  of  an  approaching  train  coming 
round  the  curve.  The  driver  had  stopped  the  car 
without  waiting  for  a  signal.  Dick  had  just  time 
to  fling  his  coat  off  and  leap  to  the  ground  ;  and 
even  in  the  act  of  doing  so  he  recognized  one  of  his 
father's  horses  and  saw  a  broken  rein  dragging 
under  the  animal's  feet.  He  did  not  dare  to  look 
beyond,  where  the  old  man  sat,  erect  and  rigid, 
in  the  swaying  buggy,  his  keen  eyes  fixed  upon 
that  curling  smoke,  mind  and  body  braced  for 
the  shock. 

As  the  maddened  creature  dashed  by,  Dick  flung 
himself  across  his  neck,  seized  the  bit  with  both 
hands,  and  jerked  the  iron  curb  together  with 
a  force  that  almost  broke  the  jaw.  Arrested  by 
the  sharp  agony,  the  horse  reared  wildly,  Dick 
kept  his  clutch  upon  the  bits,  and  as  he  felt  him- 
self lifted  in  the  air,  he  shouted  :  "  Get  out — 
quick — get  out ! ' ' 

The  horse  came  crashing  down  with  one  leg 
over  the  shafts,  and  Dick,  flung  free  of  the  strug- 
gling beast,  felt  a  deadly  pain  in  his  arm,  heard 
the  shrill  whistle  of  the  engine  as  the  train  thun- 
dered over  the  crossing,  and  then  he  felt  and 
heard  no  more.  As  his  father  lifted  him  in  his 


DICK 


Well  Matched.  299 

arms,  the  bell-punch  dangled  heavily  across  the 
old  man's  knee,  but  the  conductor's  cap  lay 
crushed  beneath  the  feet  of  the  men  who  had 
hurried  to  the  spot  to  disentangle  the  frightened 
horse. 

After  all,  a  broken  arm  is  no  great  matter,  and 
Dick  had  much  and  various  cause  for  thankful- 
ness. But  it  was  long  before  Dick's  father  could 
think  with  composure  of  that  short  but  awful 
moment. 

The  next  morning,  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
library,  the  disabled  arm  in  a  sling,  the  owner  of 
the  arm  somewhat  pale,  but  very  happ}r,  Dick 
learned  of  the  business  opening  which  had  been 
preparing  for  him.  His  father  did  not  tell  him 
how,  in  his  wrath,  he  had  already  taken  steps  tow- 
ard cancelling  the  negotiations  with  his  friend  the 
manufacturer.  Dick,  however,  suspected  it,  and 
his  mother,  who  had  borne  the  brunt  of  her  hus- 
band's  "  state  of  mind  "  on  that  trying  yesterday, 
sat  by,  in  blissful  mood,  once  more  rendering 
thanks  for  a  great  deliverance. 

Mr.  Spencer  was  old-fashioned  enough  to  give 
his  son  much  good  counsel  on  this  occasion,  to 
which  Dick  listened  with  unbounded  faith  and 
respect.  His  father  wound  up  by  saying : 
' '  When  I  went  into  business,  my  uncle,  William 
Pratt,  gave  me  one  bit  of  advice  which  covers  the 
whole  ground.  He  said  :  *  It  's  not  so  much 
matter  what  you  do,  Richard,  so  you  do  it  devilish 
well.'" 


3OO  Pratt  Portraits. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  magnanimity, 
the  old  man  added,  "  We  '11  forget  that  wretched 
conductoring  business  as  fast  as  possible ;  but  I 
will  say,  Dick,  that  you  did  it  '  devilish  well.'  " 

"  And  nothing  *  became  him  like  the  leaving 
it,*  "  Mrs.  Spencer  added,  with  glistening  eyes, 
as  she  laid  her  hand  gently  on  Dick's  bandaged 
arm. 

"Ah,  Dick,  you  beggar,"  said  his  father 
rather  huskily,  and  getting  up  from  his  chair 
with  the  instinct  of  flight,  "that  *s  something 
we  can't  talk  about." 

"Oh,  I  say,"  Dick  cried,  growing  very  red 
in  the  face,  "  don't  be  so  awful  good  to  a  fellow. 
I  ought  to  have  been  thrashed." 

And  all  having  thus  made  a  clean  breast  of  the 
matter,  these  three  warm-hearted  people  began 
to  feel  a  little  shamefaced,  and  with  one  accord 
endeavored  to  dispel  the  emotions  which  their 
Puritan  blood  made  them  shy  of  acknowledging. 

Then  Dick  told  his  father  and  mother  about 
Julie. 


xni. 
UNCLE  BOBBY. 

UNCLK  BOBBY  was  a  poet.     That  was  why 
he  had  made  a  failure  of  life ;  that  was 
why  his  hair  had  grown  gray  in  an  un- 
equal contest  with  the  realities  of  this 
prosaic  world. 

Uncle  Bobby  was  a  poet.  That  too  was  why 
his  latter  days  were  days  of  pleasantness  and 
peace.  I/ife,  like  a  wise  mother  who  has  disci- 
plined her  child,  took  him  gently  by  the  hand 
and  gave  him  of  her  best  and  sweetest.  For  the 
best  and  sweetest  is  not  a»  matter  of  circumstance 
— it  is  not  even  success  and  love.  It  is  being  in 
tune.  And  Uncle  Bobby  was  in  tune  like  an  in- 
strument whose  strings  have  yielded  to  a  master 
hand.  To-day  he  was  sitting  in  his  "  yacht,"  as 
he  had  dubbed  his  tiny  row-boat,  his  oars  bal- 
anced idly,  floating  with  the  tide  up  the  salt- 
water creek  behind  Pleasant  Point.  A  stranger 
might  not  have  guessed  that  he  was  a  poet.  From 
his  gray  felt  hat  slouched  comfortably  against  the 
sun,  down  to  the  huge  rubber  waders  encasing 
feet  and  legs,  there  was  nothing  aesthetic  to  be 
301 


3O2  Pratt  Portraits. 

discovered.  Corduroy  trousers,  to  be  sure,  when 
judiciously  cut,  and  especially  if  pausing  just  be- 
low the  knee,  may  have  a  genial  air.  But  the 
dingy  corduroys  worn  by  Uncle  Bobby  were  not 
of  a  genial  cut,  nor  did  they  disappear  into  the 
waders  with  any  promise  of  stopping  short  of  the 
solid,  matter-of-fact  instep  of  their  owner.  As  to 
the  alpaca  sack-coat,  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
any  cut  could  lend  an  air  of  distinction  to  that 
highly  inappropriate  material,  while  even  the  pic- 
turesque possibilities  of  a  gray  flannel  shirt  were 
quite  lost  beneath  an  ancient  black  vest,  from  the 
pocket  of  which  dangled  an  old-fashioned  fob. 

Furthermore,  Uncle  Bobby's  face  was  of  that 
florid  cast  which  is  manifestly  unpoetic,  and  his 
blue  eyes,  not  over  large,  were  more  inclined  to 
lend  themselves  to  fun  than  to  inspiration.  There 
was  always  a  twinkle  lurking  somewhere  in  the 
background,  ready  to  come  to  the  surface,  as 
promptly  as  the  ripple  stirs  a  quiet  sheet  of 
water  at  the  faintest  whisper  of  a  summer 
breeze.  Uncle  Bobby's  nose,  a  prominent  feature, 
was  also  florid,  and  its  rich  tone  was  finely  set  off 
in  contrast  with  the  thick  gray  moustache  which 
was  its  nearest  neighbor.  This  moustache  was 
military  in  its  character,  and  of  a  darker,  sterner 
hue  than  the  benignant  white  hair,  which  was 
soft  and  fine  as  silk.  On  the  whole,  though  not  a 
poetical-looking  personage,  Uncle  Bobby,  in  spite 
of  his  old  clothes,  might  fairly  have  been  called 
' '  a  fine  figure  of  a  man. ' '  Tall  and  erect,  though 


Uncle  Bobby.  303 

portly,  too,  he  might  easily  have  passed  muster 
as  an  army  officer,  while  as  judge  of  the  supreme 
court,  he  would  have  made  a  highly  creditable 
appearance.  But  as  a  poet?  No.  Not  by  the 
last  stretch  of  imagination  could  he  have  been 
dressed  or  drilled  or  dragged  into  the  remotest 
semblance  of  a  poet.  As  he  sat  there,  idly  drift- 
ing up  the  creek,  and  looking  rather  cumbersome 
in  his  little  boat,  which  he  maintained  was  "  just 
a  fit,"  he  held  between  his  teeth  a  small  brier- 
wood  pipe.  The  pipe  had  gone  out,  but  it  was 
evidently  at  home  in  the  situation. 

There  was  another  thing  about  Uncle  Bobby. 
He  had  never  in  his  life  written  a  line  of  poetry, 
nor  did  he  often  read  any.  If  he  had  done  so,  he 
would  probably  have  admired  the  wrong  things, 
things  wherein  sentiment  predominated  over  im- 
agination, things  about  old  blind  organ-grinders 
or  broken-hearted  maidens,  or  possibly  the  story 
of  some  faithful  dog,  starving  to  death  on  his 
master's  grave.  He  had  no  taste,  for  instance, 
for  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  with  moral  re- 
flections thrown  in .  Especially  poems  descriptive 
of  the  sea  failed  to  interest  him.  His  friends 
would  sometimes  enclose  in  their  letters  cuttings 
from  the  "  Poet's  Corner,"  in  which  the  English 
language  was  exhausted  in  the  well-meaning 
effort  to  conjure  up  a  vision  of  the  sea  to  the  read- 
er's mind.  Uncle  Bobby  politely  admitted  that 
the  description  was  somewhat  like  the  ocean,  but 
then,  the  ocean  was  not  one  bit  like  the  descrip- 


304  Pratt  Portraits. 

tion  ;  and  lie  would  forget  the  futile  verses  in  a 
wordless  reverie  upon  that  great,  changing,  musi- 
cal, living  poem  spread  out  before  his  chamber 
windows,  whispering  to  his  tiny  boat,  drawing 
his  thoughts  away,  far  beyond  the  thought  of  the 
vast  sea  itself,  out  and  beyond,  where  imagination 
grew  dim  in  horizons  that  no  ship  has  ever  neared. 
And  so  it  will  be  seen  that  Uncle  Bobby,  in  spite 
of  his  imperfect  equipment,  was  a  poet — was  a 
poet  to-day  even,  as  he  sat  with  his  pipe  between 
his  lips,  drifting  with  the  tide  up  into  the  heart 
of  the  marshes. 

A  small  cat-boat  went  tacking  across  his  stern. 
Uncle  Bobby  left  his  oars  to  the  care  of  the  patent 
row-locks,  and  their  blades  touched  the  water, 
sending  up  a  little  shower  of  jewels  on  either  side. 

"  Ah  there  !  "  cried  Uncle  Bobby,  taking  his 
pipe  from  his  lips. 

"  Ah,  there,  Uncle  Bobby  !  " 

"  Bound  for  Great  Isle  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay!" 

The  cat-boat  slipped  slowly  away  on  a  new 
tack,  and  Uncle  Bobby,  much  refreshed  by  the  en- 
counter, proceeded  to  knock  out  the  dead  ashes 
against  the  boat-side  and  stow  the  pipe  away  for 
later  service.  Then  he  took  to  his  oars  and 
rowed  in  a  leisurely  manner  up  the  stream.  He 
looked  about  from  time  to  time  with  the  quick 
eye  of  the  sportsman,  but  the  gun  at  his  feet  was 
really  there  more  for  the  sake  of  company  than 
for  anything  else.  It  was  not  the  time  of  day  for 


Uncle  Bobby.  305 

sport.  The  tide,  with  its  beautiful  impartiality, 
sometimes  sides  with  the  birds — too  often,  Uncle 
Bobby  thought,  and  he  would  hardly  have  admit- 
ted that  the  game  might  be  of  a  different  opinion. 
Uncle  Bobby  was  a  tender-hearted  man,  but 
"  yellow-legs  "  and  plover,  black  duck  and  "  old- 
squaws,"  were  so  clearly  invented  for  purposes 
of  sport  that  he  firmly  believed  that  they  too  were 
quite  in  the  spirit  of  it. 

The  tide  had  paused,  as  it  does  when  at  the 
highest,  and  Uncle  Bobby  paused  too.  Again  he 
let  his  oars  rest  on  the  water,  while  he  took  off 
his  hat  and  wiped  his  brow.  His  forehead  within 
the  line  of  the  hat  was  white  as  snow.  * '  Jest  like 
his  soul,"  old  Marm  Hawkins  used  to  say. 
"  Uncle  Bobby's  soul 's  jest  as  white  as  a  baby's, 
where  't  ain't  ben  roughened  up  by  this  wicked 
world  that  was  allers  sot  agin  him.  Ef  Uncle 
Bobby  'd  allers  lived  long  of  us,  they  never  'd 
ha'  ben  a  mark  on  him,  an'  I  don'  know  's  they  's 
any  marks  on  him  now.  When  he  fust  come 
down  to  stay  at  Jenkinses,  he  used  to  hev  his  ups 
an*  downs,  same  's  the  rest  of  us,  an'  he  war  n't 
allers  sech  good  compny  's  the  I^ord  meant  him 
for.  But  now  !  I^orda  massy  !  He  's  jest  like  an 
innicent  child,  with  his  kind  heart  and  ludikerous 
sayins.  They  ain't  nobody  I  'd  rather  smoke  a 
pipe  with,  than  Uncle  Bobby  !  " 

And  many  a  pipe  the  two  cronies  smoked  to- 
gether by  the  side  of  Marm  Hawkins's  air-tight 
stove. 

90 


306  Pratt  Portraits. 

Uncle  Bobby  had  not  always  borne  that  engag- 
ing title.  In  his  days  of  feverish  striving  he  had 
been  known  as  Robert  Pratt,  the  Visionary. 
From  the  time  when,  hardly  more  than  a  baby, 
he  had  delighted  in  his  mother's  singing  of 
stirring  old  ballads,  from  the  time  when  she, 
a  visionary  like  himself,  had  talked  to  him  of  a 
wonderful  future,  he  had  had  great  ambitions. 
The  poet  that  was  in  him  then,  as  now,  saw  all 
the  possibilities  of  happiness  and  success  that  life 
has  in  its  gift,  and  the  impulse  onward  and  up- 
ward and  outward  was  very  strong.  But  the 
world  is  too  prosaic  for  poets  to  deal  with,  and  so 
Robert  Pratt  failed.  It  seemed  a  pity,  for  he  had 
many  talents ;  too  many,  perhaps.  He  played, 
by  instinct  it  seemed,  all  the  musical  instruments 
he  could  lay  hands  on,  his  gift  of  mimicry  was 
something  wonderful,  he  was  full  of  mechanical 
ingenuity,  and  even  in  matters  of  finance  he  had 
flashes  of  insight,  which,  joined  to  a  practical 
shrewdness  that  was  lacking,  would  have  been 
the  making  of  his  fortune.  But  alas  !  he  lost 
more  money  than  ever  he  made ;  his  inventions 
fell  just  short  of  the  mark  ;  his  music  never  made 
itself  heard  in  the  world. 

Yet  why  should  one  say  alas  ?  Would  any  de- 
gree of  success,  of  wealth,  of  reputation,  have  put 
him  in  tune  as  he  was  to-day, — musing  in  his 
boat,  looking  abroad  on  the  marshes  ?  Would  a 
successful  man  have  found  time  to  sit  there  rock- 
ing with  the  turning  tide,  bathing  his  soul  in  the 


Uncle  Bobby.  307 

sunshine  and  the  beauty  of  the  quiet  hour? 
Would  a  rich  man  have  felt  the  pride  of  owner- 
ship in  all  that  exquisite  color,  in  those  reaches 
of  marsh  and  of  sea  ;  would  a  famous  man  have 
been  left  in  peace,  day  after  day,  to  live  his  own 
life  and  think  his  own  thoughts,  with  no  more 
importunate  neighbor  than  old  Marm  Hawkins 
with  her  quavering  voice  and  hobbling  step? 
Uncle  Bobby  did  not  know  he  was  a  poet.  He 
did  not  know  that  the  deep  content  in  which  he 
habitually  dwelt  was  something  rare  in  this  rest- 
less world.  He  did  not  know  that  the  smell  of 
the  salt  air  was  more  delicious  to  him  than  to 
others,  that  the  country  side  was  fairer,  the  sea 
wider,  the  old  lobster  houses  and  fishing-smacks 
prettier  in  his  eyes  than  in  the  eyes  of  his  neigh- 
bors. He  often  looked  wistfully  down  the  vista 
of  years  to  the  distant  past,  and  he  fancied  it 
fairer  than  the  present.  But  then  he  had  the 
past,  too,  as  a  part  of  the  poem  of  life.  Down 
that  dim  vista  shone  one  sweet  girlish  face,  one 
sweet  girlish  voice  echoed  low  and  clear.  More 
than  forty  years  ago  that  voice  had  been  hushed, 
that  face  had  been  shut  away  from  the  sun,  yet 
death  could  not  complete  his  conquest  over  gentle 
Annie  Wells  so  long  as  her  old  lover  lived. 

Uncle  Bobby  was  a  bachelor,  but  he  did  not  feel 
in  the  least  like  one.  What  had  he  in  common  with 
those  loveless  beings  who  grow  old  and  cranky  in 
the  pride  of  celibacy  ?  He,  for  his  part,  had  no 
patience  with  old  bachelors. 


308  Pratt  Portraits. 

There  was  a  certain  little  poem  which  Uncle 
Bobby  wore  always  in  his  pocket.  When  the 
paper  became  thin  and  yellow  he  had  sewed  with 
his  own  hands  a  silk  covering  for  it,  and  that  in 
its  turn  was  worn  and  faded.  The  poem  was  one 
which  Annie  had  cut  out  of  a  newspaper  and 
given  him  a  little  while  before  she  died.  These 
are  the  words  : 


closer,  darling,  I  must  speak 
So  very,  very  low. 
I<ean  closer,  till  I  touch  your  cheek 
And  feel  your  tears  that  flow. 

"  I^ean  closer,  dear,  for  I  must  try, 

Though  it  should  break  my  heart, 
To  say  the  cruel  word  good-bye 
Ere  you  and  I  do  part. 

"  Yet  hush  !  my  darling,  heard  you  not 

An  echo  faint  and  far, 
From  fairer  futures  half  forgot, 
Beyond  the  evening  star  ? 

"  Beyond  the  wondrous  evening  star, 

Where  all  is  joy  and  peace, 
'  T  is  there  good-byes  are  faint  and  far, 
Where  welcomes  never  cease." 

A  poor  little  poem  enough,  but  the  one  poem 
in  the  world  for  Uncle  Bobby.  Years  ago  he  had 
set  these  words  to  music,  and  words  and  music 
had  blended  into  something  so  very  beautiful  to 
his  mind,  that  he  had  written  them  out  and  had 


Uncle  Bobby.  309 

them  published.  But  when  his  cousin  Arabella 
Spencer  sang  the  song  to  him  in  her  well-mean- 
ing but  inadequate  treble,  he  had  experienced  a 
sudden  horror  of  what  he  had  done,  of  the  harsh 
treatment  his  modest  little  song  would  have  to 
bear,  and  he  had  withdrawn  the  edition,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  his  musical  career.  Only  ten 
copies  had  been  sold,  and  he  hoped  they  might 
soon  be  lost. 

The  music  sometimes  haunted  him,  but  to-day, 
it  was  far  from  his  thoughts.  His  mood  was 
purely  contemplative.  Not  a  single  long-drawn 
breath  of  the  brimming  creek  escaped  him,  not  a 
motion  of  the  tall  marsh  grass,  standing  shoulder 
high  in  the  pulsating  tide.  He  watched,  with 
quiet  amusement,  the  elaborate  twistings  and 
windings  of  an  eel  among  the  sea-weed,  the  busi- 
ness-like preoccupation  of  a  wicked  old  crab  in  the 
muddy  ooze  below,  ajid  when  a  soft-breasted  sea- 
swallow  alighted  on  the  stern  of  the  boat,  an  in- 
describable look  of  tenderness  came  into  Uncle 
Bobby's  blue  eyes,  and  he  sat  motionless  until 
the  light-winged  visitant  had  departed.  The 
' '  yacht ' '  had  turned  with  the  tide,  and  was 
drifting  homeward,  guided  only  by  an  occasional 
dip  of  the  right  oar  or  the  left. 

As  she  touched  the  beach  Uncle  Bobby  planted 
his  big  waders  in  the  water,  and  went  splashing 
up  the  incline,  hauling  the  boat  up  beyond  high- 
water  mark,  where  he  dropped  a  miniature  anchor 
in  the  sand.  Then  he  made  everything  ship- 


3 1  o  Pratt  Portraits. 

shape  in  the  tidy  little  craft,  which  was  perhaps 
the  best  beloved  of  his  sea-side  cronies.  He  un- 
screwed the  revolving  seat,  which  he  had  ingen- 
iously made  out  of  the  skeleton  top  of  an  old 
music-stool.  "That 's  so  that  I  can  have  the 
game  handy  if  they  fly  the  wrong  way,"  he 
would  explain ;  adding,  confidentially,  "  Game 
are  so  flighty. ' ' 

In  the  stern  of  the  "  yacht "  was  a  snug  little 
locker,  where  he  stowed  away  his  cartridges  and 
his  tobacco  cuddy,  and  where  a  brandy  flask  and 
a  box  of  crackers  lay  in  wait  against  possible  fogs. 
Here  was  also  a  small  tin  box  which  was  usually 
well-stocked  with  checkerberry  lozenges ;  his 
bonbonnfere  he  called  it,  with  a  grand  flourish 
when  he  offered  it  to  lady  passengers.  The 
"  yacht "  was  too  small  for  the  accommodation  of 
more  than  one  passenger,  but  when  Uncle  Bobby 
was  socially  inclined  he  would  organize  a  little 
fleet,  and  with  his  own  boat  as  flag-ship,  would 
escort  a  picked  party  from  the  boarding-house  up 
the  creek  ;  or,  if  the  day  was  exceptionally  calm, 
they  would  put  boldly  out  to  sea  and  make  for 
Great  Isle,  a  couple  of  miles  to  the  northward. 
No  one  else  could  get  up  such  a  party  at  Pleasant 
Point,  for  no  one  else  could  wheedle  the  fisher- 
men into  cleaning  up  their  boats  and  letting  them 
out.  It  was  a  treat  to  see  Uncle  Bobby  deal  with 
the  cantankerous  owner  of  a  jolly  little  "cat." 
He  would  saunter  up  to  the  water' s  edge,  j  ust  as  the 
man  was  trying  to  think  of  a  new  "cuss- word" 


Uncle  Bobby.  311 

for  an  ugly  wind  which  twisted  the  ropes  out  of 
his  hands  as  he  was  trying  to  make  things  fast. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Kimball,"  Uncle  Bobby 
would  shout  at  the  top  of  his  voice  ;  "the  mos- 
quitoes seem  to  be  plaguing  you  !  " 

"  Mr.  Kimball,"  otherwise  known  as  "  Pickerel 
Pete, ' '  would  look  up  with  a  wintry  grin,  and 
shout  back,  "  At  it  again,  Uncle  Bobby  !  "  Upon 
which  Uncle  Bobby  would  wade  out  through  the 
foaming  shallows  and  lend  a  hand. 

"Well-mannered  little  craft  that,"  he  would 
say,  giving  a  neat  twist  to  a  rebellious  rope. 
"I  've  got  a  friend  who  would  give  his  best  hat 
to  take  her  out  some  morning." 

' '  Prettiest  cat-boat  on  the  shore, ' '  would  be 
the  next  observation,  as  the  two,  having  sub- 
jugated the  rigging,  tramped  heavily  in  their 
wet  boots  across  the  sand.  '  *  I  say,  Mr.  Kimball, 
you  're  a  good  judge  of  the  weather.  Think  this 
kind  of  thing  's  going  to  last  ?  " 

"I,ast?  Bless  you,  no!  It  's  only  a  fair- 
weather  breeze.  We  shall  have  a  mill-pond  out- 
side by  to-morrow  morning.  What  caper  have 
you  got  on  hand  for  to-morrow  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  nothing  but  a  little  picnic,  if  we  can  get 
hold  of  the  boats.  Don't  s'pose,  now,  you  'd 
spare  yours,  Mr.  Kimball  ?  " 

"Yes  you  do,  Uncle  Bobby.  You  s'pose  I  'd 
be  jest  fool  enough  to  let  your  fine,  stuck-up  city 
friends  have  her.  You  're  countin'  on  't  sure  's  a 
gun." 


3 1 2  Pratt  Portraits. 

"Well,  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Kim- 
ball.  I  always  thought  you  were  the  most 
accommodating  man  on  the  shore.  We  shall 
start  about  eight  o'clock.  And,  I  say,  Captain," 
as  the  fisherman  beat  a  retreat  into  his  own  cot- 
tage, "don't  forget  to  send  along  the  mosquito- 
netting.  They  're  pretty  thick  between  this  and 
Great  Isle." 

But  if  Uncle  Bobby  enjoyed  an  occasional  jun- 
keting, he  liked  better  still,  for  the  most  part,  to 
"  gang  his  ain  gait."  And  he  never  felt  better 
satisfied  with  the  way  his  time  had  been  passed, 
than  when  he  had  spent  a  morning  up  the  creek 
with  his  gun  for  company.  To-day  he  knew  that 
Mrs.  Jenkins  had  been  preparing  one  of  her  clam- 
chowders,  which,  to  Uncle  Bobby's  palate,  amply 
represented  soup  and  fish,  solids  and  sweets. 
There  was  a  time  when  Uncle  Bobby  aspired  to 
champagne  and  French  cookery  to  his  dinner, 
— before  he  really  knew  his  own  tastes  and  needs. 
That  was  long  ago,  when  he  thought  he  must 
have  Italian  opera,  though  he  should  never  hear 
again  the  deep  baritone  of  the  surf  or  the  twitter 
of  the  sea-swallow ;  when  he  fancied  he  must 
own  richly  framed  oil  paintings,  over  which  no 
changing  lights  nor  brooding  shadows  ever 
swept.  He  had  not  heard  so  much  as  a  concert 
now  for  several  years,  and  all  his  pictures,  save 
one,  had  been  sold.  That  one  was  a  chromo 
which  he  had  picked  up  at  auction  for  a  dollar 
and  a  half,  frame  and  all.  The  chromo  had  done 


• 
. 


Uncle  Bobby.  313 

for  him  a  service  which,  as  all  are  agreed,  lies 
outside  the  province  of  art.  It  had  taught  him  a 
lesson. 

It  came  about  in  this  wise,  long  before  the 
Pleasant  Point  days.  Uncle  Bobby  had  been  specu- 
lating rather  wildly.  He  had  an  impression  that 
riches  were  power.  He  did  not  know  precisely 
how  he  should  use  such  power  if  he  had  it,  but 
he  thought  he  should  like  to  have  a  try  at  it. 
The  child  who  chases  a  will-o'-the  wisp  till  he  is 
knee-deep  in  a  swamp,  does  not  know  what  he 
wants  of  it.  It  is  bright  and  it  dances  away  from 
him.  Therefore  he  covets  it.  And  Uncle  Bobby, 
who  was  in  very  comfortable  circumstances,  who 
had  not  a  chick  nor  a  child  to  give  his  money  to, 
nor  any  definite  purpose  for  it  whatever,  had  a 
notion  that  he  wanted  to  be  rich.  So  he  risked 
everything  in  a  "big  venture,"  and  when  that 
failed,  he  sold  his  horses  and  sent  his  piano  and 
his  pictures  to  auction.  He  happened  in  on  the 
day  of  the  sale  and  was  strongly  tempted  to  bid 
high  on  his  own  possessions.  Then  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  chromo.  It  represented  a  man  standing 
on  the  brink  of  a  stream  fishing.  He  had  hooked 
a  huge  fellow  whose  weight  was  breaking  the 
rod.  In  his  agitation  he  had  upset  a  basket,  out 
of  which  poured  a  stream  of  little  fishes,  joyfully 
wriggling  back  into  the  water.  His  hat  had 
blown  off  and  was  floating  down  stream,  his  coat 
was  bursting  out  under  the  arms,  and  in  his 
flushed  face  and  staring  eyes  was  all  the  excite- 


3 1 4  Pratt  Portraits. 

ment  of  the  gambler  who  has  staked  everything 
on  a  losing  game.  Uncle  Bobby  gazed,  fascinated, 
at  the  picture,  and  when  it  was  put  up  for  sale  he 
was  the  only  bidder,  and  he  got  it  cheap. 

This  happened  in  New  York,  whither  he  had 
drifted  in  his  quest  after  wealth  and  fame,  and  in 
that  human  wilderness  he  lived  the  life  of  a  her- 
mit for  many  years,  years  of  dull  routine,  some- 
times in  the  employ  of  a  fickle  government, 
sometimes  in  no  employ  at  all.  Occasionally, 
when  he  signed  his  name,  he  was  reminded  of  all 
the  prosperous,  well-to-do  Pratts,  who  had  been 
content  to  lead  reasonable  lives  in  his  native  town 
of  Dunbridge.  After  the  death  of  his  mother — 
that  gifted  and  fascinating  Bmmeline  Pratt  whose 
memory  was  still  green  in  the  paths  she  had  trod, 
— there  was  no  tie  strong  enough  remaining  to 
draw  him  back  to  his  own  people.  The  most 
genial  of  men  in  prosperity,  he  felt  a  shrinking 
from  old  associations,  now  that  he  had  made  a 
failure  of  the  game  of  life.  He  could  still  crack 
a  joke  with  his  landlady  or  the  bootblack ;  he 
could  still  toss  a  coin  from  his  scanty  store  to 
cheer  a  beggar  ;  but,  for  his  own  part,  he  was  a 
hermit  in  a  wilderness,  in  that  waste  of  brick 
walls  and  smoky  air  which  is  so  much  drearier 
than  nature's  wildernesses. 

There  came  a  time  when  Uncle  Bobby  fell  ill, 
and  had  to  keep  his  bed.  As  he  lay  there,  pass- 
ing in  review  the  twenty  cheerless  years  since  he 
had  had  anything  in  particular  to  live  for,  he 


Uncle  Bobby.  315 

rather  wondered  that  he  did  not  wish  to  die.  His 
chief  diversion  in  the  lonely  days  of  convales- 
cence was  the  contemplation  of  the  old  chromo 
which  hung  on  his  chamber  wall.  He  thought 
he  had  learned  its  lesson  pretty  well.  He  had  re- 
sisted the  temptation  to  speculate  with  the  small 
sum  saved  from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes,  though 
it  scarcely  yielded  him  his  board  and  lodging.  In 
those  days  of  slowly  returning  health,  he  took  a 
grim  pleasure  in  looking  at  the  desperate  fisher- 
man on  the  bank.  That  wretched  gambler  was 
clearly  losing  his  foothold  on  the  very  ground 
beneath  him,  and  was  slipping  down  into  the 
stream.  He,  at  least,  Robert  Pratt,  had  kept  his 
head  above  water. 

One  morning  his  reflections  took  another  turn. 
What  good  sport  it  used  to  be  to  go  fishing  J 
How  many  years  it  was  since  he  had  had  any 
sport  at  all !  And  with  a  rush  of  memory  the 
old  days  of  his  youth  came  back  to  him,  when 
he  used  to  go  "  down  Bast  "for  a  summer  holi- 
day. The  more  he  thought  about  it  the  more  his 
thoughts  clung  to  the  old  memories,  the  more 
ardently  he  longed  for  the  old  delights. 

Ten  days  from  that  time  Uncle  Bobby  came,  a 
travel-stained  pilgrim,  to  Pleasant  Point — travel- 
stained  from  the  long  and  weary  journey  of  life. 

Human  things  had  changed  a  good  deal  at 
Pleasant  Point.  The  few  straggling  fishermen's 
huts  had  given  place  to  a  collection  of  tidy  green 
and  white  cottages,  a  flourishing  boarding-house 


316  Pratt  Portraits. 

had  sprung  up,  where  sportsmen  with  their  wives 
and  daughters  were  wont  to  congregate.  The 
"Old  Shanty"  up  the  creek,  where  young  Bob 
Pratt  and  his  boon  companions  had  many  a  time 
gone  to  camp  out,  had  disappeared  to  the  last 
shingle. 

Robert  Pratt,  grown  old  in  mind  and  body 
since  those  days,  rowed  up  the  creek  and  landed 
at  the  foot  of  the  little  bluff  where  the  Old 
Shanty  once  stood.  He  wore  his  city  clothes, 
and  smoked  a  cigar.  He  looked  out  across  the 
creek  and  the  tongue  of  land  built  up  with  cot- 
tages, and  there,  over  beyond,  was  his  old  friend, 
the  ocean. 

Yes,  human  things  had  changed  ;  but  what  of 
that  ?  Robert  Pratt  had  had  enough  of  human 
things.  What  he  wanted  now  was  something 
genuine  and  permanent.  And  there  was  the 
faithful  coast-line,  strong  and  unchanged,  the 
ocean,  gleaming  blue  beyond  the  pine-trees  that 
fringed  the  beach.  He  knew  their  breath  was  as 
sweet  as  of  old  ;  he  could  almost  hear  the  mur- 
muring sea-breeze  among  their  storm-wracked 
branches.  He  watched  the  sea-gulls  circling  in 
the  sun,  the  sails  standing  out  white  or  gray 
against  the  horizon.  Once  more  he  felt  the 
strong  tonic  of  the  salt  air  with  its  bountiful  re- 
newal. There  was  an  exhilaration  in  it  all  which 
he  had  not  known  for  years.  He  laid  his  hat 
down  on  the  low-creeping  junipers,  and  let  the 
air  sweep  his  brow.  Suddenly  the  lapping  of 


Uncle  Bobby.  317 

the  tide  on  the  rocks  below  struck  his  ear  and 
touched  his  heart.  The  tired  eyes  filled,  and  for 
a  moment  the  sunny  day  was  veiled  to  his  sight. 

It  is  not  often  that  such  a  thing  happens  to  a 
man  of  sixty,  a  man  too,  not  given  to  self-pity. 
When  it  does  it  may  mean  many  things.  To- 
day it  meant  that  Robert  Pratt  in  his  city  clothes 
would  smoke  no  more  cigars  on  the  site  of  the 
Old  Shanty.  After  that  it  was  Uncle  Bobby  with 
his  brierwood  pipe  who  lingered  among  the  juni- 
pers. He  would  take  his  New  York  Herald  up 
there,  and  read  of  the  doings  of  men  in  the  world 
outside,  and  that  echo  of  worldly  turmoil  only 
deepened  the  sense  of  security  and  peace.  The 
fishermen  sailing  by,  and  the  boys  and  girls 
out  on  a  picnic,  got  the  habit  of  looking  up  as  they 
passed  that  particular  bluff,  hoping  to  catch  a 
sight  of  Uncle  Bobby's  paper  gleaming  in  the 
sun. 

"  Boat  ahoy,  Uncle  Bobby  !  "  the  shrill  voices 
would  call,  and  Uncle  Bobby  would  stand  up, 
and  wave  his  New  York  Herald,  which  fluttered 
as  gayly  in  the  breeze  as  though  it  were  not  black 
with  the  record  of  sins  and  follies  of  thwarted 
ambitions  and  cruel  successes.  And  likely  as  not 
a  jest  would  drop  down  among  them,  a  jolly, 
good-humored  jest  that  would  not  lose  its  relish 
all  day  long. 

Uncle  Bobby's  jokes  were  considered  wonders  of 
wit.  In  fact  there  was  nothing  like  Uncle  Bobby's 
fun  unless  it  was  his  kindness.  He  was  hand  in 


3 1 8  Pratt  Portraits. 

glove  with  every  Pleasant  Pointer,  big  and  little, 
and  welcome  as  the  sun  at  every  cottage  door. 
'  *  There  comes  Uncle  Bobby  ! ' '  the  youngsters 
would  cry,  and  leave  their  play  to  hear  him  talk. 
It  was  just  like  going  nutting  in  the  fall.  You 
never  could  tell  when  a  great  bouncing  joke 
might  come  popping  plump  onto  your  own  head. 
The  comparison  was  suggested  to  the  more 
imaginative  among  the  children  by  Uncle  Bob- 
by's avowal  that  the  jokes  were,  half  of  them, 
chestnuts.  "We  like  chestnuts,"  sturdy  Billy 
Jenkins  maintained,  and  all  the  boys  and  girls 
were  of  the  same  mind.  But  Uncle  Bobby  did 
himself  injustice.  He  made  more  new  jokes 
than  old  ones.  Funny  notions  were  constantly 
coming  into  his  head/  Since  he  had  become  an 
out-and-out  Pleasant  Pointer  his  humor  was  so 
gay,  the  sunshine  had  so  saturated  his  being, 
that  the  gleams  and  glints  were  always  going  on 
in  his  brain. 

Uncle  Bobby  was  no  "  summer  boarder"  at 
Pleasant  Point.  He  and  the  old  chromo  were 
fixtures  there.  He  occasionally  spent  a  winter 
month  with  his  Dunbridge  relatives,  but  though 
it  seemed  very  pleasant  and  ' '  folksy  ' '  among 
them,  now  that  he  had  made  his  peace  with  life 
in  general,  yet  he  was  always  glad  to  get  back  to 
Pleasant  Point  with  its  whistling  storms  and 
tossing  surf.  He  did  not  live  at  OrmsbyX 
the  big  boarding-house,  but  with  Sol  Jenkins,  a 
prosperous  householder  who  ran  the  express 


Uncle  Bobby.  319 

wagon  out  over  the  causeway  to  the  railroad 
station  twice  a  day.  He  brought  in  the  mail  and 
any  stray  passengers  who  were  not  otherwise  pro- 
vided for.  Sol  was  an  all-round  genius  of  the 
variety  rarely  found  out  of  Yankeeland,  and 
Uncle  Bobby  delighted  in  him,  as  he  had  never 
delighted  in  brother  or  friend  before.  Sol's  droll 
sayings  and  dry  philosophy  were  better  than  all 
the  books,  and  his  ingenious  doings  as  good  as  a 
play. 

Mrs.  Sol  Jenkins  was  a  famous  cook,  and  just 
the  kindest  woman  in  the  world,  or  so  Uncle 
Bobby  said.  It  was  really  surprising  how  many 
of  the  kindest  and  smartest  people  in  the  world 
Uncle  Bobby  discovered  at  Pleasant  Point.  The 
side  of  folks  that  was  turned  toward  him  always 
blossomed  and  bloomed  as  plants  do  toward  the 
sun. 

Now  on  the  day  when  Uncle  Bobby  drifted  up 
the  creek  and  back  again — the  day  when  the 
sea-swallow  twittered  his  little  lay  on  the  stern  of 
the  boat, — there  was  a  new  arrival  at  the  board- 
ing-house, a  handsome,  stately  woman  attended 
by  a  retinue  of  friends.  And  by  the  time  Uncle 
Bobby  had  made  fast  the  * '  yacht ' '  on  the  beach 
behind  the  village,  and  was  strolling  homeward 
in  the  well-founded  hope  of  a  clam-chowder,  the 
rumor  had  gone  abroad,  that  the  new  arrival  was 
no  other  than  Kate  Alton,  the  great  contralto 
singer,  whose  fame  had  reached  even  Pleasant 
Point.  There  was  a  flutter  of  excitement  through- 


320  Pratt  Portraits. 

out  the  little  community,  for  Miss  Alton's  good- 
nature was  almost  as  well  known  and  almost  as 
phenomenal  as  her  voice.  Yet  Uncle  Bobby,  who 
had  seen  something  of  prima  donnas  in  his  day, 
hardly  thought  it  likely  that  she  would  sing, 
and  after  supper  he  betook  himself  with  his  pipe 
to  Mann  Hawkins's  for  a  quiet  smoke.  Uncle 
Bobby  liked  to  sit  out-of-doors  in  the  pleasant 
August  evenings,  but  then,  Marm  Hawkins 
liked  his  company  in  her  stuffy  little  *  *  settin 
room,"  and  without  thinking  much  about  the 
matter,  Uncle  Bobby  found  it  about  as  natural  to 
indulge  his  old  neighbor's  whims  as  his  own. 
So  there  he  sat,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke,  discussing  the  weather  and  the  vagaries 
of  the  deep-sea  fish,  when  a  messenger  came  to 
summon  him  to  Onnsby's — Miss  Alton  had  con- 
sented to  sing. 

"  Has  she  sung  anything  yet  ?  "  asked  Uncle 
Bobby,  as  his  feet  crunched  the  powdered  white 
shells  of  the  road. 

"  No  !  I  guess  not.  She  seemed  to  be  un- 
furlin'  her  main-sail  when  I  come  away.  It 
takes  them  big  craft  some  time  to  git  under 
weigh." 

But  as  they  approached  Onnsby's  a  superb 
voice  came  sweeping  out  into  the  twilight.  Uncle 
Bobby  stopped  to  listen,  while  his  companion 
trudged  on  ahead.  The  music  rose  and  fell  like 
the  very  bosom  of  the  deep,  and  a  hot  flush 
burned  on  Uncle  Bobby's  cheek. 


Uncle  Bobby.  321 

"  Gad  !  but  she  can  sing,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, as  the  song  ended  and  he  hurried  forward. 
As  he  came  up  the  piazza,  steps  he  saw  that  there 
was  bright  lamplight  and  a  crowd  of  people  in  the 
parlor.  Outside  the  air  was  sweet  and  cool,  and 
the  darkness  was  already  creeping  over  the 
wateis.  Uncle  Bobby  sat  himself  down  in  a  chair 
close  to  one  of  the  open  parlor  windows.  He 
could  hear  the  murmur  of  conversation  within, 
and  a  rustle  of  dresses,  as  the  people  discussed 
their  small  impressions  of  that  great  voice.  Uncle 
Bobby  sat,  still  smoking  his  pipe,  looking  out 
across  the  open  ocean. 

Presently  a  hush  fell  upon  the  company,  and  a 
clear  voice  said  :  "  Now  I  am  going  to  sing  for 
you  my  favorite  song.*' 

A  strangely  familiar  chord  was  struck,  melting 
then  away  into  a  plaintive  succession  of  notes. 
Uncle  Bobby  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
started  forward,  with  an  intent  look  on  his  ruddy 
face.  The  quiet  prelude  ceased  and  there  was  an 
instant's  pause.  Then  the  voice  of  the  great 
singer  murmured  rather  than  sang : 

"  Lean  closer,  darling,  I  must  speak 
So  very,  very  low." 

The  simple  words  floated  out  on  the  music 
with  a  thrilling  pathos  that  was  almost  too 
poignantly  sweet  to  bear.  Within  the  room  the 
people  held  their  breath  to  listen,  while  the  white 
head  outside  sank  forward,  till  the  light  from  the 


322  Pratt  Portraits. 

parlor  window  fell  upon  it  like  a  halo.  The 
music  was  singularly  beautiful.  In  that  hour 
Uncle  Bobby  felt  it,  though  he  almost  forgot  that 
it  was  his  own.  Then  came  the  change  in  the 
harmony — that  change  which  had  made  his  heart 
beat  high  when  first  it  dawned  in  his  brain.  The 
noble  voice  rose  to  its  full  volume,  and  rang  forth 
on  the  words 

"  Beyond  the  wondrous  evening  star," 

melting  again  into  a  vibrating  sweetness  with 
the  last  line, 

"  Where  welcomes  never  cease." 

For  an  instant  after  the  final  chord  died  away 
no  one  spoke  or  moved.  Then  there  was  a  burst 
of  applause.  When  it  ceased,  Uncle  Bobby  heard 
the  singer  answering  questions.  He  wished  she 
would  not  put  that  voice  of  hers  to  such  a  prosaic 
use  as  talking.  He  drew  back  in  his  chair,  that 
he  might  not  be  seen  from  within. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  composer 
but  his  name, ' '  Miss  Alton  was  saying. 

"  But  where  did  you  get  the  piece?  "  asked  a 
summer  boarder,  who  "  sang  a  little  herself. " 

"  I  found  it  among  some  old  music  of  my 
mother's.  I  came  across  it  when  I  was  a  young 
girl,  and  I  fell  in  love  with  it.  Indeed,  I  was 
singing  that  song  when  it  first  came  over  me  that  I 
had  a  voice. ' ' 

"  Won't  you  sing  it  again  ?  "  some  one 
begged. 


Uncle  Bobby.  323 

Miss  Alton  laughed. 

"  I  thought  you  would  ask  me  to,"  she  said. 
"  I  never  yet  sang  it  to  an  audience  that  I  did  not 
have  a  recall,  and  I  always  repeat  the  song, 
because  I  know  that  is  what  they  want. ' ' 

And  then  she  sang  it  again,  and  it  sounded 
even  more  beautiful  than  before.  Uncle  Bobby 
looked  forth  across  the  sea,  to  where  a  golden 
planet  shone  out,  and  a  sudden  calm  fell  upon 
him,  as  though  he  had  known  all  along  how 
beautiful  his  music  was,  and  as  though  it  really 
made  no  very  great  difference  that  others  had 
found  it  out,  since  it  was  good  music  either  way. 

Again  the  applause  was  sounding  in  his  ears, 
and  now  Uncle  Bobby's  mind  had  wandered  from 
the  music  to  the  star,  that  was  burning  clearer 
every  moment.  Suddenly  he  heard  his  name. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Alton  had  been  saying,  "the 
publisher  is  dead,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  out  anything  about  Robert  Kingsbury  Pratt. 
I  am  afraid  he  is  dead  too." 

Here  other  voices  took  up  the  name.  "  Robert 
Kingsbury  Pratt !  Why,  Uncle  Bobby's  middle 
name  begins  with  a  K!" — and  cries  of  "Uncle 
Bobby  !  Uncle  Bobby  !  Where  's  Uncle  Bobby  !  " 
rose  on  every  hand. 

Then  Uncle  Bobby  got  up  from  his  chair,  and 
stole  noiselessly  across  the  piazza,  and  out,  under 
the  pine-trees  to  the  white  beach,  where  he  paced 
up  and  down  in  the  starlight.  There  was  no 
moon,  and  there  was  little  danger  of  his  being 


324  Pratt  Portraits. 

discovered  in  the  dim  light.  For  hours  he  paced 
there,  smoking  his  pipe  out  several  times.  The 
tide  came  creeping  up  to  his  feet  and  then  it 
receded.  He  followed  the  water-line  as  it  with- 
drew down  the  shore.  His  feet  made  scarcely  a 
mark  upon  the  firm  sand.  The  shining  star  rose 
toward  the  zenith  where  it  was  lost  among  a  host 
of  others.  And  still  Uncle  Bobby  paced  the 
beach  and  smoked  his  pipe. 

The  next  day,  as  Uncle  Bobby,  in  his  waders, 
with  his  oars  over  his  shoulders,  walked  across 
the  Point  to  the  shore  of  the  creek,  where  his 
boat  was  moored,  he  had  many  questions  to 
answer  about  that  song.  He  agreed  that  there 
was  a  curious  coincidence  in  the  names,  but  when 
pressed  to  give  his  middle  name  he  gravely  said 
it  was  Ketchum.  Then  he  pushed  his  "  yacht" 
off,  got  aboard  her,  and  disappeared  for  an  all-day 
trip. 

Strange  to  say,  Uncle  Bobby's  prevailing 
thought  throughout  the  day,  was  of  his  late 
grandmother,  the  redoubtable  Old  L,ady  Pratt, 
and  of  her  pride  in  the  Kingsbury  connection. 
"  And  I  said  it  was  Ketchum  !  "  he  told  himself 
remorsefully  from  time  to  time,  feeling  more  like 
a  culprit  than  he  had  done  for  many  a  long  year. 
Yet  his  reflections  ended  each  time  in  a  self-con- 
gratulatory chuckle,  after  which  he  would  draw 
a  long,  low  whistle,  and  fall  to  examining  the 
gun  at  his  feet. 

The  people  of  Pleasant  Point  never  found  out 


Uncle  Bobby.  325 

whether  Uncle  Bobby  really  knew  anything 
about  the  song  that  had  so  enchanted  them,  and 
after  a  while  they  forgot  it. 

But  Miss  Alton  seemed  to  have  lost  her  heart 
to  Pleasant  Point,  and  she  used  often  to  come 
down  for  a  week  in  the  summer.  She  said  it  was 
"so  restful."  In  the  course  of  time  she  had 
many  a  checkerberry  lozenge  out  of  Uncle 
Bobby's  bonbonni^re^  and  sometimes,  as  they 
rowed  home  in  the  early  twilight,  a  wonderful 
contralto  voice  might  be  heard  winging  its  way 
across  the  quiet  waters  of  the  creek. 

When  the  evening  star  shone  out  above  Uncle 
Bobby's  head,  Miss  Alton  used  to  think  to  her- 
self that  the  weather-beaten  old  hat  looked 
exactly  like  a  laurel  crown. 


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"  The  lines  the  author  cuts  in  her  vignette  are  sharp  and 
clear,  but  she  has,  too,  not  alone  the  knack  of  color,  but 
what  is  rarer,  the  gift  of  humor." — New  York  Times. 

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PEAK  AND  PRAIRIE 

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'*  A  love  story  of  the  first  water.  The  heroine  is  a  woman's 
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One  of  the  pleasantest  things  about  these  girls  of  Miss 
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too  intent  upon  what  she  is  about  to  give  much  thought  to 
herself.  Indeed  the  single-heartedness  with  which  Madge,  for 
instance,  pursues  her  art  and  Di  her  grandfather,  is  so  refresh- 
ing that  the  reader  young  or  old,  feels  a  sense  of  personal 
elation  in  the  happy  outcome.  In  presenting  this  little  group 
of  debutantes  to  the  great  world,  we  must  own  to  a  comfort- 
able assurance  that  however  kindly  they  may  be  received 
their  heads  will  not  be  turned. 


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